འ DIRGE OF A CHILD. No bitter tears for thee be shed, With flowers alone we strew thy bed, Whose all of life, a rosy ray, Blush'd into dawn, and pass'd away. Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power That never felt a storm! The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, Thou wert so like a form of light, Ere yet the world could breathe one blight And thou, that brighter home to bless, Art pass'd, with all thy loveliness! Oh! hadst thou still on earth remain'd, Vision of beauty! fair, as brief! How soon thy brightness had been stain'd With passion or with grief! Now not a sullying breath can rise, To dim thy glory in the skies. We rear no marble o'er thy tomb, No sculptured image there shall mourn; Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom Such dwelling to adorn. Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be The only emblems meet for thee. Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, Each glowing season shall combine Its incense there to breathe ; And oft, upon the midnight air, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. And oh! sometimes in visions blest, And bear from thine own world of rest, What form more lovely could be given Than thine, to messenger of Heaven? ENGLAND'S DEAD. SON of the ocean isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed. Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free, the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead. On Egypt's burning plains, By the pyramid o'ersway'd, With fearful power the noon-day reigns, And the palm-trees yield no shade. But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done! There slumber England's dead. The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far, by Ganges' banks at night, But let the sound roll on! For those that from their toils are gone; Loud rush the torrent-floods The western wilds among, And free, in green Columbia's woods, The hunter's bow is strung. But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done? There slumber England's dead! The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, Like rose-leaves on the breeze. |