A PROSE POEM. THERE is an old yew tree which stands by the wall in a dark quiet corner of the church-yard. And a child was at play beneath its wide-spreading branches, one fine day in the early spring. He had his lap full of flowers, which the fields and lanes had supplied him with, and he was humming a tune to himself as he wove them into garlands. And a little girl at play among the tombstones crept near to listen; but the boy was so intent upon his garland, that he did not hear the gentle footsteps, as they trod softly over the fresh green grass. When his work was finished, and all the flowers that were in his lap were woven together Twenty years passed away. Again he was seated beneath the old yew tree in the church-yard. It was summer now; bright, beautiful summer, with the birds singing, and the flowers covering the ground, and scenting the air with their perfume. But he was not alone now, nor did the little girl steal near on tiptoe, fearful of being heard. She was seated by his side, and his arm was round her, and she looked up into his face, and smiled as she whispered: “The first evening of our lives we were ever together was passed here: we will spend the first evening of our wedded life in the same quiet, happy place.” And he drew her closer to him as she spoke. The summer is gone; and the autumn; and twenty more summers and autumns have passed away since that evening, in the old church-yard. A young man, on a bright moonlight night, comes reeling through the little white gate, and stumbling over the graves. He shouts and he sings, and is presently followed by others like unto himself or worse. So, they all laugh at the dark solemn head of the yew tree, and throw stones up at the place where the moon has silvered the boughs. Those same boughs are again silvered by the “HER HEART BRAKE IN SILENCE.” But the silence of the churchyard is now broken by a voice—not of the youth—nor a voice of laughter and ribaldry. “My son!—dost thou see this grave? and dost thou read the record in anguish, whereof may come repentance?” “Of what should I repent?” answers the son; “and why should my young ambition for fame relax in its strength because my mother was old and weak?” “Is this indeed our son?” says the father, bending in agony over the grave of his beloved. “I can well believe I am not;” exclaimeth the youth. “It is well that you have brought me here to say so. Our natures are unlike; our So the son left the father kneeling by the grave. Again a few years are passed. It is winter, with a roaring wind and a thick gray fog. The graves in the Church-yard are covered with snow, and there are great icicles in the Church-porch. The wind now carries a swathe of snow along the tops of the graves, as though the “sheeted dead” were at some melancholy play; and hark! the icicles fall with a crash and jingle, like a solemn mockery of the echo of the unseemly mirth of one who is now coming to his final rest. There are two graves near the old yew tree; and the grass has overgrown them. A third is close by; and the dark earth at each side has just been thrown up. The bearers come; with a heavy pace they move along; the coffin heaveth up and down, as they step over the intervening graves. Grief and old age had seized upon the father, and worn out his life; and premature decay soon |