DIRGE

Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone;

Thou Angler, by the silent flood;

And mourn when thou art all alone,

Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!

Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy

Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum;

And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy!

Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb.

Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide

Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth,

As he before had sanctified

Thy infancy with heavenly truth.

Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay,

Bold settlers on some foreign shore,

Give, when your thoughts are turned this way,

A sigh to him whom we deplore.

For us who here in funeral strain

With one accord our voices raise,

Let sorrow overcharged with pain

Be lost in thankfulness and praise.

And when our hearts shall feel a sting

From ill we meet or good we miss,

May touches of his memory bring

Fond healing, like a mother's kiss.