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260 FOREST MELODIES.
In the cool fragrance of that shade, A lone and mossy grave was made,
And at its head there stood An angel, from the realms of light, Whose folded pinions, ever bright,
With heavenly radiance glow'd.
"Whom guard'st thou there?" I trembling
said, While on that low turf-cover'd bed,
Inquiringly I gazed: Thus the bright angel made reply, While upward, toward the beaming sky,
One glitt'ring wing was raised.
" Would that the earth," he answer'd weeping, ". Knew where its mightiest ones were sleeping! Alas, it is not so! Men kneel before a monarch's bier, A conqueror's tomb they proudly rear, Their place of burial know.
"But these, their brightest and their best, They care not where their ashes rest;
Neglected and unknown, The Muse of History heeds them not, And Poesy seeks not the spot,
Where they are sleeping lone.