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,
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.