AN EMIGRANT'S DIRGE.
Sleep, though the broad Atlantic water
Divides thee with its billowy foam—
Thee, Britain's own true-hearted daughter,—
From this thy first, thy native home.
Sleep, where our Shakespere's tongue resoundeth,—
Where hearts are by his magic moved;
Sleep, where a nation's young heart boundeth
To watchwords which our Milton loved.
Sleep, where in long unrest, forsaking
The haunts and homes of English life,
A lonely Mourner's heart is aching
For thee—the matron, friend, and wife.
Sleep, where a sister's voice of wailing—
A still small voice, o'er ocean sent,—
Above all alien sounds prevailing,
Shall lull thee with its low lament.
Sleep, from the wizard banks of Avon
A nameless poet bids thee sleep,
Where thy toss'd bark hath found a haven
From life's still vext, tempestuous deep.
Sleep, till the trump of doom awake thee,
A Christian's crown, we trust, to win,
When pure the atoning blood shall make thee
From earth's last lingering taint of sin.
