It was about the same time, while still feeling the sadness of this bereavement, that he wrote the fragment entitled

“The righteous PERISHETH, and no man LAYETH it to heart.”

      A grave I know
      Where earthly show
      Is not—­a mound
      Whose gentle round
      Sustains the load
      Of a fresh sod. 
      Its shape is rude,
      And weeds intrude
      Their yellow flowers—­
      In gayer bowers
      Unknown.  The grass,
      A tufted mass,
      Is rank and strong,
      Unsmoothed and long. 
      No rosebud there
      Embalms the air;
      No lily chaste
      Adorns the waste,
      Nor daisy’s head
      Bedecks the bed. 
      No myrtles wave
      Above that grave;
      Unknown in life,
      And far from strife,
      He lived:—­and though
      The magic flow
      Of genius played
      Around his head,
      And he could weave
      “The song at eve,”
      And touch the heart,
      With gentlest art;
      Or care beguile,
      And draw the smile
      Of peace from those
      Who wept their woes
      Yet when the love
      Of Christ above
      To guilty men
      Was shown him—­then
      He left the joys
      Of worldly noise,
      And humbly laid
      His drooping head
      Nor heather-bell
      Is there to tell
      Of gentle friend
      Who sought to lend
      A sweeter sleep
      To him who deep
      Beneath the ground
      Repose has found. 
      No stone of woe
      Is there to show
      The name, or tell
      How passing well
      He loved his God,
      And how he trod
      The humble road
      That leads through sorrow
      To a bright morrow
      He sought the breath: 
      But which can give
      The power to live—­
      Whose word alone
      Can melt the stone,
      Bid tumult cease,
      And all be peace! 
      He sought not now
      To wreathe his brow
      With laurel bough. 
      He sought no more
      To gather store
      Of earthly lore,
      Nor vainly strove
      To share the love
      Of heaven above,
      With aught below
      That earth can show
      The smile forsook
      His cheek—­his look
      Was cold and sad;
      And even the glad
      Return of morn,
      When the ripe corn
      Waves o’er the plains,
      And simple swains
      With joy prepare
      The toil to share
      Of harvest, brought
      No lively thought
      To him.