THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW.
Come o'er the Bridge of Sighs, some twilight hour,
When dimly gleams the fair Cathedral-tower,
And lingering day-beams faintly serve to show
The tomb-stones mouldering round its base below;
—Come o'er that bridge with me, and musing think
What untold pangs have marked this streamlet's brink,
What bitter tears distilled from hearts of woe,
Since first its arches spanned the flood below.
Here hath the mother from her bleeding breast
Laid the young darling of her soul to rest;
Here the lorn child resigned the parent stay,
To walk despairing on its orphan way;
Here the riven heart that fond companion brought
By years cemented with its inmost thought;
Here the sad throng in long procession crept,
To bear the sage, for whom a nation wept,
Or deep in dust the reverend pastor lay,
Whose pure example taught to Heaven the way.
Approach through winding paths yon terrace high,
Whose statued column strikes the traveller's eye,
