A DIRGE.
Tomb! take our treasure to thy hoard,—
The hand that we so oft have prest,
The eye whence holy light hath pour'd,
The glowing lip, the form adored,
Take to thy breast!—
Cold, cold and thankless as thou art,
How can we leave the spirit free,
How can we yield that faithful heart,
Which bore in all our joys a part,
Thus unto thee?—
Said we the spirit?—'T is not thine!—
No, guard the slumbering dust with care,
Nature with flowers shall deck the shrine,
And be at dewy eve's decline,
A weeper there.—
Dark steward! lock with jealous fear
The secrets of thy dreamless bed,
For thou, when ruin whelms the sphere,
The strong archangel's voice must hear,
"Restore the dead."