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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The Blessed Dead.
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 | A memorial volume of sacred poetry |  |
The Blessed Dead.
Is it not death to summon all
The records of the past—to call,
From every niche in Memory's hall,
The fancies of departed hours,
And find a desolate blank around
A stormy sea—a barren ground
Pitch darkness—and a sullen sound
That fades, while gathering silence lowers?
The records of the past—to call,
From every niche in Memory's hall,
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And find a desolate blank around
A stormy sea—a barren ground
Pitch darkness—and a sullen sound
That fades, while gathering silence lowers?
Is it not death? The dead are free,
The past is past, for them and me
To all that was—and ceased to be;
And far as they—and lost as they
To childhood's joys—to youth's gay dream—
To manhood's early gladdening gleam—
Time's stream—time's ever-rolling stream—
Hath borne us, e'en like them, away.
The past is past, for them and me
To all that was—and ceased to be;
And far as they—and lost as they
To childhood's joys—to youth's gay dream—
To manhood's early gladdening gleam—
Time's stream—time's ever-rolling stream—
Hath borne us, e'en like them, away.
Time! they are slumbering and are blest,
We slumber, but with aching breast,
We die—but do not know the rest.
Yet know—they have no earthly care,
No earthly discords shock their ears,
No earthly sorrows force their tears,
No earthly dangers rouse their fears,
At rest! O could we join them there!
We slumber, but with aching breast,
We die—but do not know the rest.
Yet know—they have no earthly care,
No earthly discords shock their ears,
No earthly sorrows force their tears,
No earthly dangers rouse their fears,
At rest! O could we join them there!
| A memorial volume of sacred poetry | |