Lætitia Elizabeth Maclean (1802–1838)

THERE is a little lonely grave

Which no one comes to see,

The foxglove and red orchis wave

Their welcome to the bee.

There never falls the morning sun,

It lies beneath the wall,

But there when weary day is done

The lights of sunset fall,

Flushing the warm and crimson air,

As life and hope were present there.

There sleepeth one who left his heart

Behind him in his song;

Breathing of that diviner part

Which must to heaven belong,

The language of those spirit chords,

But to the poet known,

Youth, love, and hope yet use his words,

They seem to be his own:

And yet he has not left a name,

The poet died without his fame.

How many are the lovely lays

That haunt our English tongue;

Defrauded of their poet’s praise,

Forgotten he who sung.

Tradition only vaguely keeps

Sweet fancies round his tomb;

Its tears are what the wild flower weeps,

Its record is that bloom;

Ah, surely Nature keeps with her

The memory of her worshipper.

One of her loveliest mysteries

Such spirit blends at last,

With all the fairy fantasies

Which o’er some scenes are cast:

A softer beauty fills the grove,

A light is in the grass,

A deeper sense of truth and love

Comes o’er us as we pass;

While lingers in the heart one line

The nameless poet hath a shrine.