The poetical works of Henry Alford Fifth edition, containing many pieces now first collected |
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THE LITTLE MOURNER. (1833.) |
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 | The poetical works of Henry Alford |  |
THE LITTLE MOURNER. (1833.)
“Child, whither goest thou
Over the snowy hill?
The frost-air nips so keen
That the very clouds are still:
From the golden folding curtains
The sun hath not looked forth,
And brown the snow-mist hangs
Round the mountains to the north.”
Over the snowy hill?
The frost-air nips so keen
That the very clouds are still:
From the golden folding curtains
The sun hath not looked forth,
And brown the snow-mist hangs
Round the mountains to the north.”
“Kind stranger, dost thou see
Yonder church-tower rise,
Thrusting its crown of pinnacles
Into the looming skies?—
Thither go I:—keen the morning
Bites, and deep the snow;
But, in spite of them,
Up the frosted hill I go.”
Yonder church-tower rise,
Thrusting its crown of pinnacles
Into the looming skies?—
Thither go I:—keen the morning
Bites, and deep the snow;
But, in spite of them,
Up the frosted hill I go.”
“Child, and what dost thou
When thou shalt be there?—
The chancel-door is shut—
There is no bell for prayer;
Yester-morn and yester-even
Met we there and prayed;
But now none is there
Save the dead lowly laid.”
When thou shalt be there?—
The chancel-door is shut—
There is no bell for prayer;
235
Met we there and prayed;
But now none is there
Save the dead lowly laid.”
“Stranger, underneath that tower,
On the western side,
A happy, happy company
In holy peace abide;
My father, and my mother,
And my sisters four:
Their beds are made in swelling turf
Fronting the western door.”
On the western side,
A happy, happy company
In holy peace abide;
My father, and my mother,
And my sisters four:
Their beds are made in swelling turf
Fronting the western door.”
“Child, if thou speak to them,
They will not answer thee;
They are deep down in earth,—
Thy face they cannot see.
Then wherefore art thou going
Over the snowy hill?
Why seek thy low-laid family
Where they lie cold and still?”
They will not answer thee;
They are deep down in earth,—
Thy face they cannot see.
Then wherefore art thou going
Over the snowy hill?
Why seek thy low-laid family
Where they lie cold and still?”
“Stranger, when the summer heats
Would dry their turfy bed,
Duly from this loving hand
With water it is fed;
They must be cleared this morning
From the thick-laid snow;
So now along the frosted field,
Stranger, let me go.”
Would dry their turfy bed,
Duly from this loving hand
With water it is fed;
They must be cleared this morning
From the thick-laid snow;
So now along the frosted field,
Stranger, let me go.”
| The poetical works of Henry Alford | |