The Poems of Robert Fergusson | ||
150
DIRGE.
I
The waving yew or cypress wreathIn vain bequeathe the mighty tear;
In vain the awful pomp of death
Attends the sable shrouded bier.
II
Since Strephon's virtue's sunk to rest,Nor pity's sigh, nor sorrow's strain,
Nor magic tongue, have e'er confest
Our wounded bosom's secret pain.
III
The just, the good, more honours shareIn what the conscious heart bestows,
Than vice adorn'd with sculptor's care,
In all the venal pomp of woes.
IV
A sad-ey'd mourner at his tomb,Thou, Friendship! pay thy rites divine,
And echo thro' the midnight gloom
That Strephon's early fall was thine.
The Poems of Robert Fergusson | ||