The sun is not set, but is risen on high, Nor long in corruption his body shall lie; Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow,

Nor the music of heaven be discord below; Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,

Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,

Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;

But give to the living thy passion of tears, Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears;

Who are pressed by the combat, in darkness are lost,

By the tempest are beat, on the billows are tossed:

O, weep not for those who shall sorrow

no more,

Whose warfare is ended, whose trial is o'er;

Let the song be exalted, triumphant the chord,

And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.

JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE.

[1775-1841.]

NIGHT AND DEATH.

MYSTERIOUS night! when our first parent knew

Thee from report Divine, and heard thy

name,

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,

Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, And lo creation widened in man's view.

lament,

Let the tresses be torn, and the garments

be rent;

But weep not for him who is gone to

his rest,

Nor mourn for the ransomed, nor wail for the blest.

lay concealed

And in blossomed vale and grove Every shepherd knelt to love.

Then a rosy, dimpled cheek,
And a blue eye, foud and meek ;
And a ringlet-wreathen brow,
Like hyacinths on a bed of snow:
And a low voice, silver sweet,
From a lip without deceit;
Only those the hearts could move
Of the simple swains to love.

But that time is gone and past,
Can the summer always last?
And the swains are wiser grown,
And the heart is turned to stone,
And the maiden's rose may wither;
Cupid's fled, no man knows whither.
But another Cupid's come,
With a brow of care and gloom:
Fixed upon the earthly mould,
Thinking of the sullen gold;
In his hand the bow no more,
At his back the household store,
That the bridal gold must buy:
Useless now the smile and sigh:
But he wears the pinion still,
Flying at the sight of ill.

O, for the old true-love time,
When the world was in its prime !

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

[1785-1806.]

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

Come, press my lips, and lie with

me

Beneath the lowly alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude

So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,

It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my
ashes shed.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!

Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the

year,

bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corpse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Unnoticed and alone,