Thomas Wells

AT musing hour of twilight gray,

When silence reigns around,

I love to walk the churchyard way,

To me ’t is holy ground.

To me, congenial is the place

Where yew and cypress grow;

I love the moss-grown stone to trace,

That tells who lies below.

And, as the lonely spot I pass

Where weary ones repose,

I think, like them, how soon alas!

My pilgrimage will close.

Like them, I think, when I am gone,

And soundly sleep as they,

Alike unnoticed, and unknown,

Shall pass my name away.

Yet ah! and let me lightly tread!

She sleeps beneath this stone

That would have soothed my dying bed,

And wept for me when gone!

Her image—’t is to memory dear—

That clings around my heart,

And makes me fondly linger here,

Unwilling to depart.