With lingering steps I slowly sought
The village graveyard near ;

And though the loved were sleeping there,

I did not shed a tear.

I did not shed a tear for those

Who, lost a while to view,

Had only journeyed through the mists,

To scenes of beauty new.

And, as I neared the sacred spot,

I heard a weird song Arising from the earth below,

As if the graves among.

It came, and then it ceased a while,
'Midst lusty strokes of spade;
It came again, and then it seemed
Amongst the graves to fade.

But when, at last, I heard the words

The agèd sexton sang,

It seemed as if with fellow thoughts

The very graveyard rang.

For, bending at his lowly task,

Borne on the sighing breeze, 'Midst strokes of mattock and of spade, The words I heard were these:

"They say that mine's the saddest work That ever yet was found;

To see my friends fall one by one,

And put them in the ground.

'They wonder that I still can sing,

A sexton forty years,

When I have dug so many graves,

And seen so many tears.

"But mine is not the mournful task
The village maidens say;

The house is all they bring to me,
The man has gone away;

"A crazy cottage, at the best,
When he was tenant here,
It gave him shelter; but its walls

Were stained with many a tear.

"He lived; and here he had his share

Of pleasure and of pain,

So mingled, and so sorrowful,
He would not live again.

"They said he died; and yet, to me,

He only went away,

And still, beyond the shadows, lived

In never-ending day.

"To me, he only went away,

And sought another land,

Where friends and neighbours welcomed him,

A bright and smiling band;

"Where those he best had known and loved,

Who journeyed there before,

With radiant faces welcomed him,

To part for nevermore.

So, thus I sing, and dig my graves,

Till I shall journey too,

And all the misty shadows hide

Shall burst upon my view:

"So, thus I sing, and dig my graves,

Till men shall say, 'He dies,'

And I, no longer lost in mists,
Shall see realities."

THE VEILED MESSENGER.

I SAW a ghostly figure walk
Amidst the ranks of life;

At his approach, a stillness hushed
Its tumult and its strife.

With noiseless steps, and echoless,
The figure seemed to glide,

As I have seen a shadowed cloud
Upon a mountain side.

The figure walked so silently,
His footsteps left no sound,
To tell when he was close to you,
Upon the awe-struck ground.