Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | IV. |
A DIRGE. |
| V. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
169
A DIRGE.
Sleep on, sleep on, ye resting dead;
The grass is o'er ye growing
In dewy greenness. Ever fled
From you hath Care; and, in its stead,
Peace hath with you its dwelling made,
Where tears do cease from flowing.
Sleep on!
The grass is o'er ye growing
In dewy greenness. Ever fled
From you hath Care; and, in its stead,
Peace hath with you its dwelling made,
Where tears do cease from flowing.
Sleep on!
Sleep on, sleep on: Ye do not feel
Life's ever-burning fever—
Nor scorn that sears, nor pains that steel
And blanch the loving heart, until
'Tis like the bed of mountain-rill
Which waves have left for ever!
Sleep on!
Life's ever-burning fever—
Nor scorn that sears, nor pains that steel
And blanch the loving heart, until
'Tis like the bed of mountain-rill
Which waves have left for ever!
Sleep on!
Sleep on, sleep on: Your couch is made
Upon your mother's bosom;
Yea, and your peaceful lonely bed
Is all with sweet wild-flowers inlaid;
And over each earth-pillowed head
The hand of Nature strews them.
Sleep on!
Upon your mother's bosom;
Yea, and your peaceful lonely bed
Is all with sweet wild-flowers inlaid;
And over each earth-pillowed head
The hand of Nature strews them.
Sleep on!
Sleep on, sleep on: I would I were
At rest within your dwelling,—
No more to feel, no more to bear
The World's falsehood and its care—
The arrows it doth never spare
On him whose feet are failing.
Sleep on!
At rest within your dwelling,—
170
The World's falsehood and its care—
The arrows it doth never spare
On him whose feet are failing.
Sleep on!
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |