A memorial volume of sacred poetry by the late Sir John Bowring. To which is prefixed, a memoir of the author, by Lady Bowring |
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They are risen.
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 | A memorial volume of sacred poetry |  |
98
They are risen.
They are not gone—whom death's dark shroud
Hath curtained from our mortal eye;
They are not gone:
Down to their bed of rest they bowed—
It was their portal to the sky,
The pathway to their throne.
Hath curtained from our mortal eye;
They are not gone:
Down to their bed of rest they bowed—
It was their portal to the sky,
The pathway to their throne.
They cannot die—whose being here
Is by its worth immortal made;
They cannot die:
Though the time-wasted sepulchre
In which their vestiges are laid
Crumbled in dust may lie.
Is by its worth immortal made;
They cannot die:
Though the time-wasted sepulchre
In which their vestiges are laid
Crumbled in dust may lie.
They are not dead—whose ashes fill
That melancholy house of clay;
They are not dead:
They live in brighter glory still,
Than ever cheered their earthly way,
Full beaming round their head.
That melancholy house of clay;
They are not dead:
They live in brighter glory still,
Than ever cheered their earthly way,
Full beaming round their head.
| A memorial volume of sacred poetry | |