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And the still air of evening
By a mourner's sigh was stirr'd.
An old man stood before me,
Bow'd 'neath the weight of years;
His locks were thin and silvery, His eyes were dim with tears.
Pointing to a green hillock, Unmark'd by flower or stone ;
He spoke of its lone tenant, His child, his only one.
" Ah! he has left no sister
To plant his grave with flowers,
And water them with tenderness, At evening's dewy hours."
The old man sobb'd in anguish, And, when he ceased to speak.
Tears, bursting from concealment, Stream'd down his furrow'd cheek.
I wept—I wept beside him,
Above his only child ; My own heart's grief forgetting,
Though passionately wild.
Young hearts have often shower'd My path with scalding tears,
Yet they glisten'd with the freshness Of the morning of their years!