ELEGIAC STANZAS

O for a dirge! But why complain?

Ask rather a triumphal strain

When FERMOR'S race is run;

A garland of immortal boughs

To twinearound the Christian's brows,

Whose glorious work is done.

We pay a high and holy debt;

No tears of passionate regret

Shall stain this votive lay;

Ill-worthy, Beaumont! were the grief

That flings itself on wild relief

When Saints have passed away.

Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel,

For ever covetous to feel,

And impotent to bear!

Such once was hers — to think and think

On severed love, and only sink

From anguish to despair!

But nature to its inmost part

Faith hadrefined; and to her heart

A peaceful cradle given:

Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest

Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast

Till it exhales to Heaven.

Was ever Spirit that could bend:

So graciously?— that could descend,

Another's need to suit,

So promptly from her lofty throne?—

In works of love, in these alone,

How restless, how minute!

Pale was her hue; yet mortal cheek

Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak

When aught had suffered wrong,—

When aught that breathes had felt a wound;

Such look the Oppressor might confound,

However proud and strong.

But hushed be every thought that springs

From out the bitterness of things;

Her quiet is secure;

No thorns can pierce her tender feet,

Whose life was, like the violet, sweet,

As climbing jasmine, pure —

As snowdrop on an infant's grave,

Or lily heaving with the wave

That feeds it and defends;

As Vesper, ere the star hath kissed

The mountain top, or breathed the mist

That from the vale ascends.

Thou takest not away, O Death!

Thou strikest— absence perisheth,

Indifference is no more;

The future brightens on our sight;

For on the past hath fallen a light

That tempts us to adore.