At Smyrna, the burial-ground of the Americans, like that of the
Moslems, is removed a short distance from the town, is sprinkled with
green trees, and is a favorite resort not only with the bereaved, but
with those whose feelings are not thus darkly overcast. I met there
one morning a little girl with a half-playful countenance, busy blue
eye, and sunny locks, bearing in one hand a small cup of china, and in
the other a wreath of fresh flowers. Feeling a very natural curiosity
to know what she could do with these bright things, in a place that
seemed to partake so much of sadness, I watched her light motions.
Reaching a retired grave, covered with a plain marble slab, she
emptied the seed, which it appeared the cup contained, into the slight
cavities which had been scooped out in the corners of the level
tablet, and laid the wreath on its pure face. "And why," I inquired,
"my sweet child, do you put the seed in those little bowls there?" "It
is to bring the birds here," she replied with a half-wondering look:
"they will light on this tree," pointing to the cypress above, "when
they have eaten the seed, and sing." "To whom do they sing?" I asked:
"to you or to each other?" "Oh! no," she quickly replied, "to my
sister: she sleeps here." "But your sister is dead?" "Oh! yes, sir;
but she hears the birds sing." "Well, if she does hear the birds sing,
she cannot see that wreath of flowers." "But she knows I put it there;
I told her, before they took her away from our house, I would come and
see her every morning." "You must" I continued, "have loved that
sister very much; but you will never talk with her any more, never see
her again." "Yes, sir," she replied, with a brightened look, "I shall
see her always in heaven." "But she has gone there already, I trust."
"No, she stops under this tree till they bring me here, and then we
are going to heaven together." "But she has gone already, my child:
you will meet her there, I hope; but certainly she is gone, and left
you to come afterward." She cast to me a look of inquiring
disappointment, and the tears came to her eyes.
Oh! yes, my sweet child, be it so,
That, near the cypress-tree,
Thy sister sees those eyes o'erflow,
And fondly waits for thee;
That still she hears the young birds sing,
And sees the chaplet wave,
Which every morn thy light hands bring,
To dress her early grave;
And in a brighter, purer sphere,
Beyond the sunless tomb,
Those virtues that have charmed us here
In fadeless life shall bloom.
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