Letitia Elizabeth Landon

“ Of daisies, that, like the sweet gifts of hope,
Spring every where: methinks, it were a spot
Whereon the traveller would love to pause,
And the tir'd peasant rest him from his toil,—
So cool the ashen tree spreads its green cloud,
So beautiful the lanes that from it wind,
So rich the sweep of meadows it commands.
But no! all shun the place; some in vague fear,
And some in pity, some in pious awe:
It is the Suicide's unholy grave:
The one who sleeps here, had no humble prayer
Breath'd o'er the clay it hallow'd by its faith;—
Even in death, shunn'd by his fellow men! ”

“ Was the breath of fever streaming;
And men who had stood, unscath’d, when the balls
Like dust on the gale were flying,
And those whom the tempest of night had spared,
Were now like spring leaves dying. ”

“ Were pealing cheerfully, and the red light
Made mirrors of the cottage lattices.
When they had reach'd the green lane, which shut out
The hamlet from their view, the old man paus'd,
And bade the youth look back. ”