THE LOVED AND THE LOST. I. Dormientes. BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. Here are the houses of the Dead. Here Youth Made quiet by the awe, I pause and think Among these winding walks, lined with the frequent tombs ; For it is very wonderful.-Afar The populous City lifts its tall bright spires, They sleep, these calm pale people of the Past calls With all her passionate poetry of flowers, Majestical the mournful Sagas, learned Far in the melancholy North, where God They slumber still. Sleep on, O passionless Dead! Here Avarice shall forget his silver den; To feel the touching eloquence of graves And therefore it was well for us to clothe Shall lift some stately dirge he loves to breathe And it is well! Why should a darkness scowl on any spot And all that we call glorious are its dower. O ye whose mouldering frames were brought and By pious hands within these flowery slopes Are ye where great Orion towers and holds Or where pale Neptune in the distant space Of bright beatitude: or do ye know Aught of dull space or time, and their dark load Of aching weariness? They answer not: But HE whose love created them of old, |