32

THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD.

Awake! lift up thy joyful eyes,-
See, all heaven's host appears;
And be thou glad exceedingly,

Thou who hast done with tears!

Awake! ascend. Thou art not now
With those of mortal birth;
The living God hath touched thy lips,
Thou who hast done with earth.

THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD.

COME near.

MRS. HEMANS.

Ere yet the dust

Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow,
Look on your brother, and embrace him now
In still and solemn trust.

Come near.

Once more let kindred lips be pressed On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest.

Look yet on this young face.

What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone,
Leave of its image, even where most it shone,
Gladdening its hearth and race?

Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impressed.
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest.

Ye weep and it is well;

For tears befit earth's partings. Yesterday,
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
And sunshine seemed to dwell

Where'er he moved, the welcomed and the blessed. and bear the silent unto rest.

Now gaze

Look yet on him whose eye

Meets yours no more in sadness or in mirth.
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth
The beings born to die?

But not where death has power may love be blessed.
Come near, and bear
ye the beloved to rest.

How may the mother's heart

Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again?

The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain -
The lovely must depart.

Is he not gone, our brightest and our best?
Come near, and bear the early-called to rest.

Look on him. Is he laid

To slumber from the harvest or the chase?

Too still and sad the smile upon his face
Yet that, even that, must fade.

;

Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest.
Come near, and bear the mortal to his rest.

His voice of mirth hath ceased

Amidst the vineyards. There is left no place
For him, whose dust receives your vain embrace,
At the gay bridal feast.

34

AGAINST REPINING AT DEATH.

Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast.

Come near; weep o'er him; bear him to his rest.

Yet mourn ye not as they

Whose spirit's light is quenched. For him the past
Is sealed. He may not fall; he may not cast
His birthright's hope away.

All is not here of our beloved and blessed
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!

AGAINST REPINING AT DEATH.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

ETERNAL things are raised far above the sphere of generation and corruption, where the first matter, like an ever-flowing and ebbing sea, with divers waves, but the same water, keepeth a restless and nevertiring current. What is below, in the universality of the kind, not in itself doth abide. Man a long line of years hath continued; this man, every hundred, is swept away.

This earth is as a table book, and men are the notes the first are washen out, that new may be written in. They who forewent us did leave a room for us; and should we grieve to do the same to those who should come after us? Who, being suffered to see the exquisite rarities of an antiquary's cabinet, is grieved that the curtain be drawn, and to give place

to new pilgrims? And when the Lord of this universe hath showed us the amazing wonders of his various frame, should we take it to heart when he thinketh time to dislodge? This is his unalterable and inevitable decree as we had no part of our will in our entrance into this life, we should not presume to any in our leaving it, but soberly learn to will that which He wills, whose very will giveth being to all that it wills; and, reverencing the Orderer, not repine at the order and laws which, all-where and always, are so perfectly established, that who would essay to correct and amend any of them, he should either make them worse or desire things beyond the level of possibility.

MOURN NOT THE DEAD.

ELIZA COOK.

MOURN not the dead-shed not a tear
Above the moss-stained sculptured stone,

But weep for those whose living woes
Still yield the bitter, rending groan.

Grieve not to see the eyelids close

In rest that has no fevered start;
Wish not to break the deep repose
That curtains round the pulseless heart.

36

MOURN NOT THE DEAD.

But keep thy pity for the eyes

That pray for night, yet fear to sleep,
Lest wilder, sadder visions rise

Than those o'er which they waking weep.

Mourn not the dead-'tis they alone
Who are the peaceful and the free;
The purest olive branch is known
To twine about the cypress tree.

Crime, pride, and passion hold no more
The willing or the struggling slave;
The throbbing pangs of love are o'er,

And hatred dwells not in the grave.

The world may pour its venomed blame,
And fiercely spurn the shroud-wrapped bier;
Some few may call upon the name,

And sigh to meet a "dull, cold ear."

But vain the scorn that would offend,
And vain the lips that would beguile;

The coldest foe, the warmest friend,
Are mocked by Death's unchanging smile.

The only watchword that can tell
Of peace and freedom won by all
Is echoed by the tolling bell,

And traced upon the sable pall.

"The heart knows that it may sorrow; that no prohibition has been uttered to stifle the voice of woe. Rachel was not chid when she wept