Thou art laid to rest in the spring-time hours,
In the freshness of early feeling;
While the dew yet lies on the new-born flowers,
And winds through the wood-paths are stealing;
While yet life was gay to thine ardent eye,
While its rich hopes filled thy bosom;
While each dream was pure as the upper sky,
And sweet as the opening blossom:
But thy promise of being, which shone so fair,
Hath passed like a summer cloud in air;
Thy bosom is cold, which with love was warm,
And the grave embraces thy gentle form.
Thou art slumbering now in a voiceless cell,
While Nature her garland is wreathing;
While the earth seems touched with a radiant spell,
And the air of delight is breathing;
While the day looks down with a mellow beam,
Where the roses in light are blushing:
While the young leaves dance with a fitful gleam,
And the stream into song is gushing;
While bright wings play in the golden sun,
The tomb hath caressed thee, thou faded one!
The clod lies cold on that settled brow,
Which was beaming with pleasure and youth but now.
Should we mourn that Death's Angel, on dusky wing,
O'er thy flowery path has driven?
That he crushed the buds of thy sunny spring —
That thy spirit is borne to heaven?
How soon will the visions of earth grow dim —
How soon will its hopes be faded;
And the heart that hath leaped to the syren's hymn,
With sadness and gloom be o'ershaded!
The feelings are fresh but a little while;
We can bask but an hour in affection's smile,
Ere the friend and the lover have passed away —
Ere the anthem is sung o'er their wasting clay?
Then take thy rest in that shadowy hall,
In thy mournful shroud reposing;
There is no cloud on the soul to fall,
No dust o'er its light is closing:
It will shine in glory when time is o'er,
When each phantom of earth shall wither;
When the friends who deplore thee shall sigh no more,
And lie down in the dust together:
Though sad winds wail in the cypress bough,
Thou art resting untroubled and calmly now:
With a seal of sleep on thy folded eye,
While thy spirit is glad in the courts on high.
In the freshness of early feeling;
While the dew yet lies on the new-born flowers,
And winds through the wood-paths are stealing;
While yet life was gay to thine ardent eye,
While its rich hopes filled thy bosom;
While each dream was pure as the upper sky,
And sweet as the opening blossom:
But thy promise of being, which shone so fair,
Hath passed like a summer cloud in air;
Thy bosom is cold, which with love was warm,
And the grave embraces thy gentle form.
Thou art slumbering now in a voiceless cell,
While Nature her garland is wreathing;
While the earth seems touched with a radiant spell,
And the air of delight is breathing;
While the day looks down with a mellow beam,
Where the roses in light are blushing:
While the young leaves dance with a fitful gleam,
And the stream into song is gushing;
While bright wings play in the golden sun,
The tomb hath caressed thee, thou faded one!
The clod lies cold on that settled brow,
Which was beaming with pleasure and youth but now.
Should we mourn that Death's Angel, on dusky wing,
O'er thy flowery path has driven?
That he crushed the buds of thy sunny spring —
That thy spirit is borne to heaven?
How soon will the visions of earth grow dim —
How soon will its hopes be faded;
And the heart that hath leaped to the syren's hymn,
With sadness and gloom be o'ershaded!
The feelings are fresh but a little while;
We can bask but an hour in affection's smile,
Ere the friend and the lover have passed away —
Ere the anthem is sung o'er their wasting clay?
Then take thy rest in that shadowy hall,
In thy mournful shroud reposing;
There is no cloud on the soul to fall,
No dust o'er its light is closing:
It will shine in glory when time is o'er,
When each phantom of earth shall wither;
When the friends who deplore thee shall sigh no more,
And lie down in the dust together:
Though sad winds wail in the cypress bough,
Thou art resting untroubled and calmly now:
With a seal of sleep on thy folded eye,
While thy spirit is glad in the courts on high.