A DIRGE.
Weep for the early lost!—
How many flowers were mingled in the crown
Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down,
E'en when life promised most!
How many hopes have wither'd! They that bow
To heaven's dread will, feel all its mysteries now.
Did the young mother's eye
Behold her child, and close upon the day,
Ere from its glance th' awakening spirit's ray
In sunshine could reply?
—Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn!
Oh! strong is faith, if woe like this be borne.
For there is hush'd on earth
A voice of gladness—there is veil'd a face,
Whose parting leaves a dark and silent place
By the once-joyous hearth:
A smile hath pass'd, which fill'd its home with light,
A soul, whose beauty made that smile so bright!
But there is power with faith!
Power, e'en though nature o'er the untimely grave
Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave;
For sorrow comes of Death,
And with a yearning heart we linger on,
When they, whose glance unlock'd its founts, are gone!
But glory from the dust,
And praise to Him, the merciful, for those
On whose bright memory love may still repose
With an immortal trust!
Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part,
Such hope as she hath left—"the pure in heart!"
1823.
