In Winter

ELIZA ALLEN STARR.

How lonely on the hillside look the graves! The summer green no longer o'er them waves; No more, among the frosted boughs, are heard The mournful whip-poor-will or singing bird.

The rose-bush, planted with such tearful care, Stands in the winter sunshine stiff and bare; Save here and there its lingering berries red Make the cold sunbeams warm above the dead.

Through all the pines, and through the tall, dry grass, The fitful breezes with a shiver pass, While o'er the autumn's lately flowering weeds The snow-birds flit and peck the shelling seeds.

Because those graves look lonely, bleak and bare, Because they are not, as in summer, fair, O turn from comforts, cheery friends, and home, And 'mid their solemn desolation roam!

On each brown turf some fresh memorial lay; O'er each dear hillock's dust a moment stay, To breathe a "Rest in Peace" for those who lie On lonely hillsides 'neath a wintry sky.

OSEMUS.