——— "Why, he but sleeps:
If he be gone, .mw-parser-output .nowrap,.mw-parser-output .nowrap a:before,.mw-parser-output .nowrap .selflink:before{white-space:nowrap}he 'll make his grave a bed."
Thou art gone to thy rest!—like the wind of the ocean,
That dies on the breast of the blue heaving wave,
So with thee life hath passed with its stormy commotion,
And the last beams of sunset are bright on thy grave.
Sweet sunset! how oft with thy radiant fingers
Thou shalt touch the sweet blossoms we strew on his tomb,
While the red-breast near by in the forest-top lingers,
And warbles his dirge in the soft evening gloom!
Yet it is not unmeet that thou com'st near his dwelling,
O'erarch'd by the sweet sod, so fresh and so green,
While the mild evening wind from the valley is swelling,
And the haze-mantled forests look down on the scene.
Nor unwelcome thy song, little bird in the willow!
Who sing'st here so sweetly at night-fall and dawn;
For a fair head below lieth cold on its pillow,
And one half of life's glory and beauty is gone!
Sing on, happy bird!—while the night, fast descending,
Shuts in on the forest, and deepens its gloom:
The sigh of the breeze with thy sweet warble blending
Shall make me still linger and muse at his tomb.
Oh! what in my heart do these voices awaken,
That bids me look up from life's toil and unrest
To that home where the weary, and sad, and forsaken,
Are glad in the beautiful land of the blest?
And why, when each day brings a darker to-morrow,
Doth the path seem so bright that my darling hath trod.
If it be not that we, in life's moments of sorrow,
Learn to humble the spirit and lean upon God?