Fremont Weekly Freeman

The Church-Yard Stile.
BY ELIZA COOK.
I left thee young and gay, Mary,
When last the thorn was white;
I went upon my way, Mary,
And all the world seemed bright;
For though my love had ne'er been told,
Yet, yet, I saw thy form
Beside me in the midnight watch,
Above me in the storm,
And many a blissful dream I had,
That brought thy gentle smile
Just as it came when last we leaned
Upon the Church-yard Stile.
I'm here to seek thee now, Mary,
As all I love the best:
To fondly tell thee how, Mary,
I've hid thee in my breast;
I came to yield thee up my heart,
With hope, and truth, and joy,
And crown with manhood's honest faith,
The feelings of the boy.
Breathed thy name, but every pulse
Grew still and cold the while,
For I was told thou wert asleep,
Just by the Church-yard Stile.
My messmates deemed me brave, Mary,
Upon the sinking ship:
But flowers above thy grave, Mary,
Have power to blanch my lip.
I felt no throb of quailing fear
Amid the wrecking surf.
But pale and weak I tremble here,
Upon the osiered turf.
I came to meet thy happy face,
And woo thy gleesome smile,
And only find thy resting place
Close by the Church-yard Stile.
Oh! years may pass away, Mary,
And Sorrow lose its sting:
For time is kind they say, Mary,
And flies with healing wing:
The world may make me old and wise,
And hope may have new birth,
And other joys and other ties,
May link me to the earth:
But memory, living to the last,
Shall treasure up thy smile,
That called me back to find thy grave,
Close to the Church-yard Stile.