THE PENDRILLS.
Reading edition
(To the Editor of the Mirror.)
C.C.
THE FRIENDS OF THE DEAD.
(For the Mirror.)
They've seen him laid, all cold and low; They've flung the flat stone o'er his breast: And Summer's sun, and Winter's snow May never mar his dreamless rest! They've left him to his long decay; The banner waves above his head: Funereal is their rich array, But hark! how speak they of the dead.
In his own hall, they've pledg'd to him
'Mid mirth, and minstrelsy divine;
When, at the crystal goblet's brim
Hath flash'd, the od'rous rosy wine;
When viands from all lands afar
Have grac'd the shining, sumptuous board,
And now, they'd prove their vaunted star,
Hark! how they scandalize the dead! They spake not thus,—(their patron here) When they were proud to break his bread, To watch his faintest smile, and fear His latent frown; they did not speak Of vices, follies, meanness: then A crime in him, had been, "the freak Of youth," and "worthiest he, of men!"
Off with those garbs of woe, false friends! Those sadden'd visages, all feign'd! Or have ye yet, some golden ends To be, by Death's own liv'ries gain'd? Ye mourn the dead forsooth! who say That which should shame the lordly hall His late ancestral home! Away! And dream that he hath heard it all!