 | The Outcast, and other poems |  |
145
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.
The hand that late in friendship's graspWas warm and true to mine,
Now lies within a mouldering clasp,
Submissive and supine.
The eye that shone so calmly blue—
And deep as yonder sky,
As if a world of thought it knew—
Alas 'tis closed for aye!
The cheek that kindled with fresh feeling,
As hills reflect the day,
The dawn of every thought revealing—
'Tis cold unconscious clay!
The lip is mute, the silent breast,
A lonely house within—
And the soul in its land of rest,
Forgets this world of sin.
| The Outcast, and other poems | |