The Funeral.
97
But a wreath is laid on the coffin,
Why is this? asks the passer by—
These silver flowers of woven frost,
Our by-past freedom typify.
Why is this? asks the passer by—
These silver flowers of woven frost,
Our by-past freedom typify.
But who is dead? repeats the voice—
Dead, dead! O sad eventful year,
Let frozen mist, and aching hearts
Deck the gloom of thy sepulchre.
Dead, dead! O sad eventful year,
Let frozen mist, and aching hearts
Deck the gloom of thy sepulchre.
Is this a dream—a fancy sketch
That comes to me thro' frosty pane?
No! 'tis the death of the vanish'd year,
Tears cannot bring it back again.
That comes to me thro' frosty pane?
No! 'tis the death of the vanish'd year,
Tears cannot bring it back again.
The pane is etched with mimic trees,
Fir, pine—like threads of glitt'ring glass
Are frozen rills, and winding paths,
With tiny bush, and crispy grass.
Fir, pine—like threads of glitt'ring glass
Are frozen rills, and winding paths,
With tiny bush, and crispy grass.
The picture faints,—I turn away—
Fret the blaze of the sea-coal bright,
And in my shadowy parlour grey,
Sigh as the old year says good-night.
Fret the blaze of the sea-coal bright,
And in my shadowy parlour grey,
Sigh as the old year says good-night.
