Justine upon thy silent tomb the dews of ev[en]ing weep
Descending twilight's wings of doom around & o'er thee sweep
The flowers closed on thy grave Justine & the fern-leaves bend & fade
And the fitful night-wind dies & swells as it ushers in the shade
A lonely light in heaven smiles one pale star in the west
The night-clouds rise in giant-piles, far along Gambia's breast

I am come, & come alone Justine, to spend one hour with thee
But the turf with its flowers & fern-leaves green doth hide thee jealously

O long & still hath been thy sleep beneath that grassy grave
Years have rolled on their billows deep & time its whelming wave
Yet still I do remember my young nurse ere she died
Ere the gloom of dark December had quenched the summers pride

Long lay she in the latticed room, which crowns that turret grey
And I used to think its death-bed gloom prophetic of decay
In the placid sunny, summer eves when the light of sunset fell
Through the checquering play of those ivy-leaves, with smiles of sad farewell

How did I love to climb the stair, which to her c[h]amber led
That I might drop a childish tear on Justine's dying bed
I felt she was not long for earth her pale cheek told me so
She who had loved me from my birth, I knew was soon to go

How wearily her eye would turn to the lattice & the sky
Within a wild wish seemed to burn that yet she might not die
As golden clouds went sailing on & the sound of winds & trees
Came as unto a mariner, comes the deep moan of the seas

Then her daughter & her foster-son she'd to her bosom press
And say with such a bitter moan may God my children bless
And then I called her mother & weepingly I said
I would be Mina's brother when she was cold & dead

That vow has since been broken as when lightning shivers trees
Those words in anguish spoken have been scattered to the breeze
Justine if God has given a glance of earth to thee
Thou hast even wept in heaven — my withering crimes to see

But let me not remember those hours of darkness past
Nor blow the dying ember, to light with such a blast
I do not know repentance, I cannot bend my pride
nor deprecate my conscience even at thy cold graves side

Lifes fit-ful fever over thou sleepest well Justine
pale flowers thine ashes cover, & grass-mounds ever green
The fox-glove here is drooping its silent peal of bells
And the shadowy yew-tree stooping of rest eternal tells

O might I find a dwelling but half so calm as thine
When my life-storm stills its yelling when my comet-fires decline
But the wild the raging billow is a fitter home for me
The coral for the willow, for the turf, the tossing sea