A DIRGE.

Life has fled; she is dead,

Sleeping in the flow'ry vale

Where the fleeting shades are shed

Ghost-like o'er her features pale.

Lay her‘ neath the violets wild,

Lay her like a dreaming child

‘ Neath the waving grass

Where the shadows pass.

Gone she has to happy rest

With white flowers for her pillow;

Moons look sadly on her breast

Thro’ an ever-weeping willow.

Fold her hands, frail flakes of snow,

Waxen as white roses blow

Like herself so fair,

Free from world and care.

Twine this wreath of lilies wan

‘ Round her sculptured brow so white;

Let her rest here, white as dawn,

Like a lily quenched in night.

Wreath this rosebud wild and pale,

Wreath it‘ mid her fingers frail;

On her dreamless breast

Let it dreaming rest.

Gently, gently lay her down,

Gently lay her form to sleep;

Gently let her soul be blown

Far away, while low we weep.

Hush! the earth no more can harm her

Now that choirs of angels charm her!

Dreams of life are brief;

Naught amendeth grief.

Speed away! speed away!

Angels called her here to sleep;

Let us leave her here to stay:

Speed away! and, speeding, weep.

Where the roses blow and die,

‘ Neath them she a rose doth lie

Wilted in the grass

Where the shadows pass.