The Grave Of Agnes

She was not of this Earth.


It boots not where we make her grave,
She was not of this earth,
Yet let the wild-rose round her wave,
And let the violet blossom have
Near her green bed its birth.

But let no sadness mark tlie spot,
She was not of this earth,
To heaven return'd—though not forgot
Though dearly lov'd—we mourn her not,
Death was her second birth.

Well—drop one mortal tear of grief—
She was not of this earth,
To our swollen hearts 'twill give relief.
But let the mortal pang be brief—
And hail her heavenly birth.

Dark is our world—no home of hers,
She was not of this earth.
Heaven's purest, brightest worshippers
Hear her sweet accents blend with theirs.
To praise that second birth.

Then lay her low in hallow'd ground.
All that of her was earth,
Hush'd in her dreamless rest so sound,
So soft, so infant like, profound,
Death was her second birth.

And there the sky-lark hovering
O'er what of her was earth,
To day's young beam his hymn shall sing
When dawn's first dew-drop wets his wing
In unrestrained mirth.

Yes—let the gentle violet have
Near her cold bed its birth,
And let the wild-rose o'er her wave ;
Yet—boots it not how made her grave,
She was not of this earth.

by Josias Homely

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