Three trees which stand apart upon A sunny slope of meadow ground,

A shadow from the heat at noon, And underneath a grassy mound.

A little silent grassy mound!

And is this all is left of thee, "Whose feet would o'er the meadow bound,

So full of eager life and glee?

Of " thee? " and may I say e'en this Of what so wholly pass'd away?

Or can such trust and tenderness Be crush'd entirely into clay?

The voice whose welcomes were so glad, Feet pattering like summer showers;

The dark eyes which would look so sad If gathering tears were dimming ours.

Those wistful, dark, inquiring eyes, So fond and watchful, deep and true;

That made the thought so often rise -

What looks these crystal windows through?

Didst thou not watch for hours our track, And for the absent seem to pine?

And when the well-known voice came back, What ecstasy could equal thine?

Is it all lost in nothingness,

Such gladness, love, and hope, and trust; Such busy thought our thoughts to guess,

All trampled into common dust?

Save memories which our hearts entwine,

Has all for ever pass'd away; Like the dear home once thine and mine -

The home now silent as the clay?

Or is there something yet to come,

From all our silence yet concealed, About the patient creatures dumb,

A secret yet to be revealed?

- A happy secret still behind,

Yet for the mute creation stored; Which suffers, though it never sinn'd, And loves and toils without reward?

- The Three Wakings.

BALLANTYNH AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.