H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W.

THE dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal rung,

The sad-voiced requiem sung;

On each white urn where memory dwells

The wreath of rustling immortelles

Our loving hands have hung,

And balmiest leaves have strown and tenderest blossoms flung.

The birds that filled the air with songs have flown,

The wintry blasts have blown,

And these for whom the voice of spring

Bade the sweet choirs their carols sing

Sleep in those chambers lone

Where snows untrodden lie, unheard the night-winds moan.

We clasp them all in memory, as the vine

Whose running stems intwine

The marble shaft, and steal around

The lowly stone, the nameless mound;

With sorrowing hearts resign

Our brothers true and tried, and close our broken line.

How fast the lamps of life grow dim and die

Beneath our sunset sky!

Still fading, as along our track

We cast our saddened glances back,

And while we vainly sigh

The shadowy day recedes, the starry night draws nigh.

As when from pier to pier across the tide

With even keel we glide,

The lights we left along the shore

Grow less and less, while more, yet more

New vistas open wide

Of fair illumined streets and casements golden-eyed.

Each closing circle of our sunlit sphere

Seems to bring heaven more near

Can we not dream that those we love

Are listening in the world above

And smiling as they hear

The voices known so well of friends that still are dear?

Does all that made us human fade away

With this dissolving clay?

Nay, rather deem the blessed isles

Are bright and gay with joyous smiles,

That angels have their play,

And saints that tire of song may claim their holiday.

All else of earth may perish; love alone

Not heaven shall find outgrown!

Are they not here, our spirit guests,

With love still throbbing in their breasts?

Once more let flowers be strown.

Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count you still our own!