 | Poems |  |
98
DIRGE.
“Thou art gone home.”
The Two Voices.
Fare-thee-well!
Happy friend—thy warfare o'er,
In this weary world no more
Will thy true heart pine;
Grief, and pain, and care have shed
Their last vials on thy head,
And repose is thine,
Deep and dreamless, such as death alone,
Could bestow on thee, earth's exiled one.
Happy friend—thy warfare o'er,
In this weary world no more
Will thy true heart pine;
Grief, and pain, and care have shed
Their last vials on thy head,
And repose is thine,
Deep and dreamless, such as death alone,
Could bestow on thee, earth's exiled one.
99
Holy is the calm that now
Rests upon that meek young brow;
Not a trace is there
Of the fierce consuming strife,
Whose dark presence made thy life
Like some flow'ret fair,
That hath bow'd beneath the tempest's sway,
Or the canker-worm hath made its prey.
Rests upon that meek young brow;
Not a trace is there
Of the fierce consuming strife,
Whose dark presence made thy life
Like some flow'ret fair,
That hath bow'd beneath the tempest's sway,
Or the canker-worm hath made its prey.
Fare-thee-well! we shed no tear,
Breathe no murmurs o'er thy bier,
All too bless'd art thou.
For a bright, untroubled home,
Where earth's shadows may not come,
Thou hast left us now;
Only let our voices rise in prayer—
God, and Father! may we meet her there!
Breathe no murmurs o'er thy bier,
All too bless'd art thou.
For a bright, untroubled home,
Where earth's shadows may not come,
Thou hast left us now;
Only let our voices rise in prayer—
God, and Father! may we meet her there!
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