"The Neglected Grave" by F. S. Fahnestock (1882)

The Neglected Grave.

Here lies ingratitude,

        All shroudless and cold;

Debased from beatitude,

        Shut from the fold.

Who could neglect it so,

        This home of the dead?

Perhaps here is buried woe,

        Hope having fled.

It may be that loveliness,

        Is lost 'neath the weeds;

Or purest devotedness,

        Dead with her deeds.

Oh! is it motherhood,

        Now clasping her child,

That died in its babyhood,

        Pure, undefiled?

Then trim the weeds away

        And plant lovely flowers;

And mellow the earth to-day,

        Ready for showers.

Who has humanity,

        Bright sparkling with tears;

Without chilling vanity

        And thoughtless sneers?

Hold up your wand of power;

        Let vandals not tread

Where the angels mark the hour

        And guard the dead.

                                F. S. FAHNESOCK

Troy Times. December 21, 1882: 6.