IN FRENCH FIELDS.
221
Sonnet.—THE DIVINE ANTITHESIS.
The knell rings sad from the belfry on high,
But with perfume shivers as drunken the breeze;
Black drapes the church from the porch to the frieze,
But purple and gold have transfigured the sky;
The procession solemn and hushed glides by,
But swallows float joyous over the trees;
Tears fall wildly, and hearts heave like the seas,
But pearls rainbow-hued on leaves flashing lie.
Lo! This is the place of repose as we trust,
Uttered are soft the prayers for the dead,
Return earth to earth and dust to the dust.
But the flowers bloom round and lift up their head,
And Nature immense is heard in each gust,
'Beauty new-born springs in light freely shed.'
