The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author |
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 | The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir |  |
WEEP NOT FOR HER.
A DIRGE.
I
Weep not for her!—Oh! she was far too fair,Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth!
The sinless glory, and the golden air
Of Zion, seem'd to claim her from her birth:
A spirit wander'd from its native zone,
Which, soon discovering, took her for its own:
Weep not for her!
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II
Weep not for her!—Her span was like the sky,Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright;
Like flowers that know not what it is to die;
Like long-link'd shadeless months of Polar light;
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While Echo answers from the flowery brake:
Weep not for her!
III
Weep not for her!—She died in early youth,Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues;
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth,
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews;
Her summer-prime waned not to days that freeze;
Her wine of life was run not to the lees:
Weep not for her!
IV
Weep not for her!—By fleet or slow decay,It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,
Her prospects wither, or her hopes grow dark;
Translated by her God, with spirit shriven,
She pass'd as 'twere in smiles from earth to Heaven:
Weep not for her!
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V
Weep not for her!—It was not hers to feelThe miseries that corrode amassing years,
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down Age's vale of tears;
As whirl the wither'd leaves from Friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry world alone to be:
Weep not for her!
VI
Weep not for her!—She is an angel now,And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise;
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes;
Victorious over death, to her appear
The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year:
Weep not for her!
VII
Weep not for her!—Her memory is the shrineOf pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers;
Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline;
Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers;
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light;
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!
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VIII
Weep not for her!—There is no cause for woe;But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below,
And from earth's low defilements keep thee back:
So, when a few fleet severing years have flown,
She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate—and lead thee on!
Weep not for her!
| The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir | |