Nor mark with tow'ring monument
The sod above my breast.

Nor carve on gleaming, marble slab
A burning thought or deed,
Or word of love, or praise, or blame,
For stranger eyes to read.

But deep, deep in your heart of hearts,
A tender mem'ry save;
Upon my dead face drop your tears--
Put flowers on my grave.




OLD AUNT LUCY.

Why into that darkened chamber
Walk you with such noiseless tread?
No slumbering one will awaken--
The sheeted form is dead.

Why gaze on the rigid features,
So white in death's embrace,
With such look of awe and pity?
'Tis only the same old face.

Why touch you now so tender
The hands that silent lay?