C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
David Gray (1836–1888)
Cross of Gold
T
Row innermost; and the pall
Plain black—all black—except
The cross on which she wept,
Ere she lay down and slept.
The marble next it—his:
So lie in brave accord
The lady and her lord,
Her cross and his red sword.
Having no care nor fear
To vex with thy hot tread
These halls of the long dead,—
To flash the torch’s light
Upon their utter night?
What word hast thou to thrust
Into her ear of dust?
In lands of the far East
I dreamed of finding rest—
What time my lips had prest
The cross on this dead breast.
And mercy live in heaven,
Surely this hour, and here,
My long woe’s end is near—
Is near—and I am brought
To peace, and painless thought
Of her who lies at rest,
This cross upon her breast,—
Beneath this cross of gold;
Who lieth, still and mute,
In sleep so absolute.
Yea, by the precious sign
Shall sleep most sweet be mine;
And I at last am blest,
Knowing she went to rest
This cross upon her breast.