At An Early Morning Poem by Henry Vanderford

At an early hour of the Sabbath morn,
Beside the ancient, sacred pile, I stood
Of old St. Ann's. The ivy careless clamber'd
Along its moss-grown, antique walls;
The sun-light bathed in golden glory
The calm, sequester'd scene, and silence
Reigned through all the leafy grove,
Save where the warbling songster pour'd
His wood-notes wild, or where 'the gray old trunks
That high in heaven mingled their mossy boughs,'
Murmur'd with sound of 'the invisible breath
That played among their giant branches,'
And 'bowed the wrapt spirit with the thought
Of boundless power and inaccessible majesty.'
Within the lone church no loitering footfall
O'er threshold, aisle, or chancel echoed,
No sound intruded on the hush profound
Of that ancient temple. The pale sleepers
In the weird city of the dead lay mute,
Their mouldering ashes mingling with the dust,
While sculptured tablets with memorial brief,
Their memories from oblivion rescued.

As thus upon the scene around I gazed,
The fresh-turned earth upon a new-made grave,
Within its marble confines neat enclosed,
My vision steadfast fixed, and I beheld
Three maidens, bearing each a rich bouquet,
Approach the tomb, and softly by its side
Stoop down and place thereon their floral gems
In token of the love they bore the friend
So late inurned, whom yet they fondly cherish'd.
Full preparation one had duly made
To stand beside her at the bridal altar;
But now, beside her early grave she stood,
With floral tokens of unfailing love
For the fair young wither'd flower beneath.
Touching and beautiful the lovely sight
Of such devotion deep at friendship's shrine.
My sterner heart, in welling sympathy,
Throbb'd its response to this ennobling act
Of these fair sisters, and did them homage
Deep down within its silent recesses.
Oh, when with them life's fitful fever ends
May ne'er be wanted hand of sympathy
To strew affection's token o'er their graves.