 | Poems |  |
THE REQUIEM.
The curtain has fallen, the night-cloud has lowered,
And dark waves the pall o'er the desolate bier;
And low lies the fair form, that exultingly towered,
And the white shroud of death is bedewed with a tear.
And dark waves the pall o'er the desolate bier;
And low lies the fair form, that exultingly towered,
And the white shroud of death is bedewed with a tear.
Oh! his name o'er oblivion tunes the pæan of glory,
It sinks not to dust, but is twined in the heart,
O his eloge is the eternal story
Of his deeds, and his mind, that did virtue impart.
It sinks not to dust, but is twined in the heart,
O his eloge is the eternal story
Of his deeds, and his mind, that did virtue impart.
There's a sound floating on the fleet breezes of balm,
And the dirge is absorbed in the song of the saint,
There's a seraph that follows with the heavenly palm,
And his shadow is dim, and the lyre's notes are faint.
And the dirge is absorbed in the song of the saint,
There's a seraph that follows with the heavenly palm,
And his shadow is dim, and the lyre's notes are faint.
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Gild, ye sunbeams of glory, the tomb where he sleeps,
And enamel the bright urn, fraught with embers, that glowed
In lambent effulgence—for the willow-copse weeps,
Where he mused on his woes, and wept as he trode.
And enamel the bright urn, fraught with embers, that glowed
In lambent effulgence—for the willow-copse weeps,
Where he mused on his woes, and wept as he trode.
The aspen, that quivers when the light breeze is blowing,
Spreads its deep-blue foliage, and adorns the domain
Of nature, when each field with rich verdure is glowing;
So shrinks the soft heart from the fell stroke of pain.
Spreads its deep-blue foliage, and adorns the domain
Of nature, when each field with rich verdure is glowing;
So shrinks the soft heart from the fell stroke of pain.
They called him austere,—he frowned on the herd,
Who wade thro' the slime of corruption and lust,
They called him a maniac—for he deigned not a word
To the wretch, who banquets on glittering dust.
Who wade thro' the slime of corruption and lust,
They called him a maniac—for he deigned not a word
To the wretch, who banquets on glittering dust.
He slumbers; the tempest is howling above,
Yet his heart is unmoved, and his fancy is still;—
He slumbers; but his spirit in the pure realms of love
Breathes the redolence that issues from bright Zion-bill.
Yet his heart is unmoved, and his fancy is still;—
He slumbers; but his spirit in the pure realms of love
Breathes the redolence that issues from bright Zion-bill.
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