HEBREW DIRGE.
261
No, for that timid, infant train
Who roam without a guide.
I murmur not for those who die,
Who rise to glory's sphere,
I deem the tenants of the sky
Need not our mortal tear,
Our woe seems arrogant and vain,
Perchance it moves their scorn,
As if the slave beneath his chain,
Deplored the princely born.
We live to meet a thousand foes,
We shrink with bleeding breast,
Why shall we weakly mourn for those
Who dwell in perfect rest?
Bound for a few sad, fleeting years
A thorn-clad path to tread,
Oh! for the living spare those tears
Ye lavish on the dead.
