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127
ALLSTON'S BURIAL.—A DIRGE.
[_]
The burial of Washington Allston was from his late residence, the procession moving in the twilight of a summer evening; and the funeral-service of the church to which he belonged was performed by moonlight at the grave, in the ancient burying-ground, which lies between the two churches, in Old Cambridge. His remains were there committed to the family tomb, where they still rest.
While shades and tears of twilight fall,
Cold his breast beneath the pall!
He goeth, 'mid the summer bloom,
At evening, to the silent tomb:
No morn shall round his couch return
Till sun and stars have ceased to burn!
Cold his breast beneath the pall!
He goeth, 'mid the summer bloom,
At evening, to the silent tomb:
No morn shall round his couch return
Till sun and stars have ceased to burn!
'T is Allston's noble shrine of clay!
He from dust hath passed away:—
While Europe with his country weeps,
In laurels fresh his Pencil sleeps.
Earth's fairest wreath had crowned his brow;
He wears in Heaven a glory now.
He from dust hath passed away:—
While Europe with his country weeps,
In laurels fresh his Pencil sleeps.
Earth's fairest wreath had crowned his brow;
He wears in Heaven a glory now.
His Lyre is hushed,—its light is o'er;
Drenched with tears, 't will sound no more!
Its fire is in the golden strings
He sweeps before the King of kings;
Where rainbow hues, that span the throne,
To his seraphic eye are shown.
Drenched with tears, 't will sound no more!
Its fire is in the golden strings
He sweeps before the King of kings;
Where rainbow hues, that span the throne,
To his seraphic eye are shown.
128
The strife is past,—the race is run;
The goal is reached,—the prize is won.
A rest where life's clear river flows
By Gilead's Balm and Sharon's Rose,—
Celestial fruits of faith and love,
Are his eternal prize above.
The goal is reached,—the prize is won.
A rest where life's clear river flows
By Gilead's Balm and Sharon's Rose,—
Celestial fruits of faith and love,
Are his eternal prize above.
We now resign, with hope and trust,
This dear form of dust to dust.
The night-winds sigh, the moon hath shed
Her holy lustre, o'er our dead.
Beloved, till Christ thine eye unclose,
His angels guard thy deep repose!
This dear form of dust to dust.
The night-winds sigh, the moon hath shed
Her holy lustre, o'er our dead.
Beloved, till Christ thine eye unclose,
His angels guard thy deep repose!
Finale.
Earth, in thy bosom's sacred peace to lie,
Take thou his ashes! Allston lives on high!
Take thou his ashes! Our Allston lives on high!
Take thou his ashes! Allston lives on high!
Take thou his ashes! Our Allston lives on high!
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