THE FUNERAL.1861.
USH! thoughtless souls! tread lightly here, Ye in this softly silver'd gloom,For mark—the mourners bear a bier In slow procession to the tomb.The pines are veiled in frozen mist; And now a shivering dreary breathStifles this sad eventful year In funeral pall of night and death.
The shrubs are gemmed with glittering beads, Stark and undraped an hour ago,Now dazed with spangles,—e'en the moss Is crystallized with jewelled snow.
Why mourn ye o'er the vanish'd dead, Why crape your souls in weeds of woe?Not so does nature in her grief, Express her anguish, no! ah, no!
