While the thought that thou never again should'st roam, Would repay us, for all our mourning. And so sweetly fell the words of Hope, Oh! soft as the dews of heaven, That we deemed 'twas the voice of an Angel spoke, And our sorrows afar were driven ! And we thought as thou sailed'st o'er the dark blue wave,' Wealth and happiness beamed before thee.— Alas! thou sleep'st in a foreign grave, With the rank grass waving o'er thee! And never did foreign grave inclose For never did heart better feelings disclose, Not a friend attended thy dying bed; Ah! often that scene doth Fancy trace, Peace, peace to thy spirit! the words of hope Shall not always thus deceive us ; We yet shall meet on a holier spot, Where no sorrow nor care can grieve us. Now farewell, my friend! thou first, thou best! Though distant the place of thy long last rest, I shall not, I cannot forget thee! Anon. THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. It is the funeral march. I did not think That there had been such magic in sweet sounds! Hark! from the blackened cymbal that dead toneIt awes the very rabble multitude, They follow silently, their earnest brows Lifted in solemn thought. 'Tis not the pomp And pageantry of death that with such force The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse, A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek At Pride's last triumph. Now these measured sounds, This universal language, to the heart Speak instant, and on all these various minds Compel one feeling. But such better thoughts Will pass away, how soon! and these who here Are following their dead comrade to the grave, Ere the night fall, will in their revelry Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life No resting place, no dear delights at home, She wept him dead to her. We are indeed Clay in the potter's hand! one favoured mind, Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man Be moulded by his fate till he becomes A mere machine of murder. And there are Who say that this is well! as God has made Themselves meantime secure their good things here All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoined, O my God! I thank thee that I am not such as these; And cries aloud against iniquity. Southey. NIGHT. Night is the time for rest; How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose;. Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions less beguiling far, Than waking dreams by day light are! Night is the time for toil; To plough the classic field, Its wealthy furrows yield; |