DIRGE,
Reading edition
The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.—Coleridge’s Wallenstein.
Thou art gone!
We shall miss thee when the flowers
Come again with vernal hours,
Brightly though thy roses bloom,
They will whisper of the tomb!
And thy voice will linger still
In the gurgle of the rill,
In the murmurs, low and sweet,
Where the silver waters meet,
In the summer even’s gale,
Sporting with the violets pale.
Meekly will their blue eyes weep
O’er thy still and solemn sleep;
And the wild-bird’s gentle moan
Murmur o’er thy slumbers lone,
Like a viewless spirit’s lay,
Asking of thee Far Away!
Fare thee well!
Thou art gone!
On thy brow, so pale and fair,
On thy dark and glossy hair,
Wreathed in many a shining braid,
Sad, autumnal flowers were laid.
Slowly to thy tomb they bore thee,
Tender farewells murmured o’er thee,
Veiled thee in its silence deep,
In thy last and dreamless sleep.
Where thou liest, soft and low,
Winter spreads his sheet of snow,
Pure and spotless as thy form.
Thou hearest not the surly storm
Sweeping o’er the dazzling wold;
Stars are gleaming, pale and cold,
On thee from the vault above,
Like the watchful eyes of Love.
Fare thee well!