My infant woes to sleep so often sung,
And watched o'er all my devious life with prayer!
6. Though grief, too late, now prompts the bitter tear,
That my wild follies caused thee many a pang,
Yet may thy guardian spirit, from its sphere,
Still o'er my paths with holy influence hang!
7. What though too oft, when friends in death repose,
Their memories vanish from the inconstant mind,
As o'er the wreck the whelming billows close,
And, ceaseless shifting, leave no trace behind.
8. Yet e'er for me shall memory's tablets bear,
Impressions deep that time can ne'er erase;
The few slight stains of error disappear,
And all thy virtues brighter there I trace.
9. O'er her low grave, by all but me forgot,
Of her oblivious fate I thus complained;
Deplored her hapless death, my friendless lot,
And madly Heaven and its decrees arraigned.
10. With grief o'erpowered my languid frame reclined, In the drear gloom, a parent's ashes near;
A spirit moves upon the rustling wind,
And these low-breathed, these soothing sounds I hear.
11. Enough for me, that, numbered with the dead, At close of summer's day, when dews descend, The simple stone that tells where I am laid,
May wake remembrance in some passing friend. 12. And though no more than this inglorious stone, Of all life's anxious vanities remain,
Peace! dull oblivion hides not me alone,
But over bards and kings extends his reign.
13. Why sorrowest thou? For me why this despair?
Could grief recall the tenant of the tomb,
Wouldst thou my mortal burden I should bear,
And quit for earth the blest ethereal dome?
14. She ceased—and now, each fevered passion hushed,
No more my falling tears bedew her sod;
But with new hopes, with sacred feelings flushed,
The soul holds pure communion with its God.
15. Now from the world remote, its woes, its ill,
A holy tranquil sorrow sways the breast,
Bids this poor heart's wild throbbing pulse be still,
And gives the calm of heaven's eternal rest.
Richard Alsop (1761 — 1815).
THE DIRGE OF WALLACE.
1. They lighted a taper at the dead of night,
And chanted their holiest hymn;
But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright,
Her eye was all sleepless and dim,—
And the lady of Elderslie1 wept for her lord,
When a death-watch beat in her lonely room,
When her curtain had shook of its own accord,
And the raven had flapp'd at her window-board,
To tell of her warrior's doom.
2. "Now sing ye the song, and loudly pray
For the soul of my knight so dear;
And call me a widow this wretched day,
Since the warning of God is here.
For a nightmare rides on my strangled sleep;
The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die;
His valorous heart they have wounded deep,
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep
For Wallace of Elderslie."
1 A small village near Paisley, where Scotland's famous champion Wallace wight" was born.
3. Yet knew not his country that ominous hour
Ere the loud matin bell was rung,
That a trumpet of death on an English tower
Had the dirge of her champion sung.
When his dungeon light look'd dim and red
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed,
No weeping there was when his bosom bled,
And his heart was rent in twain.
4. O! it was not thus when his oaken spear Was true to the knight forlorn,
And the hosts of a thousand were scatter'd like deer
At the sound of the huntsman's horn.
When he strode o'er the wreck of each well-fought field,
With the yellow-hair'd chiefs of his native land;
For his lance was not shiver'd, or helmet or shield,
And the sword that seem'd fit for archangel to wield,
Was light in his terrible hand.
5. But, bleeding and bound, though the Wallace wight.
For his much-lov'd country die,
The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight
Than Wallace of Elderslie.
But the day of his glory shall never depart,
His head unentomb'd shall with glory be balm'd,
From his blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start,
Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart,
A nobler was never embalm'd.
Thomas Campbell (1777—1844).
1. "Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
Here the evil and the just,
Here the youthful and the old,
Here the fearful and the bold,
Here the matron and the maid
In one silent bed are laid;
Here the sword and sceptre rust— "Earth to earth, and dust to dust!" 2. Age on age shall roll along
O'er this pale and mighty throng;
Those that wept then, those that weep,
All shall with these sleepers sleep.
Brothers, sisters of the worm,
Summer's sun or winter's storm,
Song of peace or battle's roar,
Ne'er shall break their slumbers more.
Death shall keep his sullen trust—
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
3. But a day is coming fast,
Earth, thy mightiest and thy last!
It shall come in fear and wonder,
Heralded by trump and thunder;
It shall come in strife and toil,
It shall come in blood and spoil,
It shall come in empire's groans,
Burning temples, trampled thrones;
Then Ambition, rue thy lust !--
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
4. Then shall come the judgment-sign;
In the east the KING shall shine;
Flashing from heaven's golden gate,
Thousand thousands round his state;
Spirits with the crown and plume;
Tremble then, thou sullen tomb!
Heaven shall open on our sight,
Earth be turn'd to living light,
Kingdom of the ransom'd just-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
5. Then thy mount, Jerusalem,
Shall be gorgeous as a gem;
Then shall in the desert rise
Fruits of more than Paradise;
Earth by angel feet be trod,
One great garden of her God!
Till are dried the martyrs' tears
Through a thousand glorious years!
Now, in hope of HIM we trust,
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
George Croly (1780 — 1860).
1. Brother, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown.
From the burden of the flesh,
And from care and fear released, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.
2. The toilsome way thou'st travell❜d o’er,
And borne the heavy load,
But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his bless'd abode;
Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus
Upon his Father's breast;
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
3. Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail:
And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
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