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75
THE DIRGE.
Kathleen sleeps silent on her lowly bed,Fair by the stream that laves her native hill:
She sleeps—and nightly on her sacred head
The dews of Heaven their sweetest tears distil;
And, morn by morn, the rosy-bosomed hours,
To flood the world with light,
Lead up their King upon his chariot bright,
And wake the warbling birds and odorous flowers.
But her no more they wake!—though gladder none
Was wont to view the cheek of Morning rosed,
And gaze the glories of the risen Sun!
In vain, alas! the tears of Evening fall,
In vain the early breezes, as they sweep
Through the dark woodland, sigh, and from the spray,
Trilling their matins sweet, the wild bird's call!
For she no more upon the dawning Day,
Listening their joyous lay,
Shall bend her wistful eyes for ever closed:
Closed in the night of Death's long slumber deep,
But Angels wake to guard her dreamless sleep!
76
And to the vales no more, in dirges drear,
Lament Kathleen laid low!—She doth but sleep,
Stretched though she be upon her sable bier!
So on her couch the Hebrew maiden lay,
Nor spoke, nor stirred, nor drew the lightest breath,
Till the mild voice of Him who conquered Death
Oped the shut portals of her sullen ear,
And on her full orbs gushed the shining day:
So to the glories of ineffable Light,
She, who now sleeps in shades of thickest night,
Anon shall lift her Heaven-directed eyes;
Waked by the voice of Him who from afar
Summons His angels home, she shall arise,
And mount aloft, and through the riven skies
Soar to the City of the Morning-star!
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