MOURN YE THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD?
Yon pilgrim see, in vestments grey,
Whose bleeding feet bedew his way,
O'er arid sands, with want opprest,
Who toiling knows no place of rest:
Mourn ye, because the long sought shrine
He clasps in ecstacy divine,
And lays his load of sin and gloom
Repentant on his Saviour's tomb?—
—Behold yon ship with wrecking form
Which vails her proud mast to the storm,
Wild winds and waves with headlong force
Impel her on her dang'rous course;
The pallid crew their hope resign
And powerless view the foaming brine;
Mourn ye, because the tempest dies,
And in her haven moor'd she lies?—
—Emerging from the field of strife
Where slaughter'd throngs have sold their life,
Yon warrior see, with gushing veins,
Who scarce his noble steed restrains,
The death-mist swims before his eyes
As toward the well-known spot he flies,
Where every fond affection lies.—
Mourn ye, because to home restored
Woman's white arms enwrap her lord,
While tears and smiles with varying grace,
Float o'er his cherub offspring's face?
—Yet on his path of toil and wo
The pilgrim from his shrine must go,
The ship before the tempest strain,
The warrior seek the field again,
But he, whose flesh the tomb hath found,
Whose spirit soars the ethereal round,
From him hath change and sorrow fled,—
—Why mourn ye then the righteous dead?—