The Poor Man's Grave

'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches,

Rears a mound its verdant head,

As if to receive the riches

Which the dew of heaven doth spread;

Many a foot doth inconsiderate

Tread upon the humble pile,

And doth crush the turf so ornate:--

That's the Poor Man's Grave the while.



The paid servants of the Union

Followed mute his last remains,

Piling he earth in fast confusion,

Without sigh, or tear or pains;

After anguish and privation,

Here at last his troubles cease,

Quiet refuge from oppression

Is the Poor Man's Grave of peace.



The tombstone rude with two initials,

Carved upon its smoother side,

By a helpmate of his trials,

Is now split and sunder'd wide;

And when comes the Easter Sunday,

There is neither friend nor kin

To bestow green leaves or nosegay

On the Poor Man's Grave within.



Nor doth the muse above his ashes

Sing a dirge or mourn his end,

And ere long time's wasting gashes

Will the mound in furrows rend:

Level with the earth all traces,

Hide him in oblivion deep;

Yet, for this, God's angel watches,

O'er the Poor Man's Grave doth weep.