Where, near yon river's brink, the willows wave,
And summer's flowers to golden life have sprung;
Is dimly seen the village maiden's grave,
Forever gone, the beautiful and young.
The boatman turns to that sad spot his eye,
When o'er the wave his lingering sail is spread,
And see, when sunset gilds the pictured sky,
Her sister maids draw near with silent tread.
Alas, how oft the gems of earth grow pale,
And stars, that blessed us, dim their rising ray!
But not in vain their beauty do they veil,
And see their earthly glory pass away.
For beauty here, they snatch immortal bloom,
And light, eternal light, doth blossom on the tomb.
— American Cottage Life (1850). XXXI.