 | Voices from the Lakes, and Other Poems |  |
118
A DIRGE.
Why sleepeth she? Are there not voices calling,
Bidding her to them as they used of yore,
In loving tones and sweetest accents falling
Along the sounding shore?
Bidding her to them as they used of yore,
In loving tones and sweetest accents falling
Along the sounding shore?
Why stayeth she? The starlight softly lieth—
The starlight which she loved on mead and hill;
While through the depths of heaven the white moon hieth,
And all is calm and still.
The starlight which she loved on mead and hill;
While through the depths of heaven the white moon hieth,
And all is calm and still.
Why lingereth she? Her step once lightly bounded,
Brushing the dew-drop from the opening flower;
Her voice amidst the gay, all gayest sounded,
Rich in its youthful power.
Brushing the dew-drop from the opening flower;
Her voice amidst the gay, all gayest sounded,
Rich in its youthful power.
Then say, why sleepeth she? She's gone for ever;
Oh, she is dead! our breaking hearts are sore;
We call her, but at our fond bidding, never
Shall she awaken more.
Oh, she is dead! our breaking hearts are sore;
We call her, but at our fond bidding, never
Shall she awaken more.
119
Alas! that she, who filled our home with gladness,
And made earth blessèd, should thus early die;
Turning our life in blank and dreary sadness,
Into one long-drawn sigh.
And made earth blessèd, should thus early die;
Turning our life in blank and dreary sadness,
Into one long-drawn sigh.
And yet, why murmer we? She has been taken
Far from the evil which is yet to come;
And not a tear can from her eyes be shaken
In her Elysian home.
Far from the evil which is yet to come;
And not a tear can from her eyes be shaken
In her Elysian home.
There, with her Father in yon radiant heaven—
There, with her Saviour, pillow'd on His breast;
All gifts that God can give to her are given,
And peaceful is her rest.
There, with her Saviour, pillow'd on His breast;
All gifts that God can give to her are given,
And peaceful is her rest.
Let us not weep, then, with a hopeless sorrow,
Nor cherish thoughts of an unmingled pain;
But rather wait the dawning of that morrow,
When we shall meet again.
Nor cherish thoughts of an unmingled pain;
But rather wait the dawning of that morrow,
When we shall meet again.
The glorious morn, when clothed in radiant lustre,
The saints that sleep in Christ, to life shall rise,
And far outshine the brightest stars that cluster
Upon the sapphire skies.
The saints that sleep in Christ, to life shall rise,
And far outshine the brightest stars that cluster
Upon the sapphire skies.
| Voices from the Lakes, and Other Poems | |