Their very memory is fair and bright, It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, I see them walking in an air of glory, Dear beauteous death, the jewel of the just, H. VAUGHAN. THE DEAD. NAME them not dead-the faithful whom Nor search within the silent tomb For those who "die no more.' The cold earth hides them from our love, They passed, as all must pass, the deep But not in dull decay they sleep THE DEAD. To mortal eye their path is dim; We saw the momentary cloud, From earthly sight that came to shroud A moment more, the shade is gone, To die! 'tis but to pass, all free, To plunge within that gulf untried, 185 Thou weep'st-perchance they weep for thee, Oh! not for all its climes contain Yet weep, for earth's a vale of care, If hallowed hope break through the gloom, IRISH PAPER. SONNET. RISE, said the Master; come unto the feast :— That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. Have listened underneath the postern green, soft; But she hath made no answer, and the day Finis. LONDON: PRINTED BY LEVEY, ROBSON, AND FRANKLYN ALFORD. |