HEBREW DIRGE.
"Mourn for the living, and not for the dead."
Hebrew Dirge.
I saw an infant, marble cold,
Borne from the pillowing breast,
And in the shroud's embracing fold
Laid down to dreamless rest;
And moved with bitterness I sighed,
Not for the babe that slept,
But for the mother at its side,
Whose soul in anguish wept.
They bare a coffin to its place,
I asked them who was there?
And they replied "a form of grace,
The fairest of the fair."
But for that blest one do ye moan,
Whose angel-wing is spread?
No, for the lover pale and lone,
His heart is with the dead.
I wandered to a new-made grave,
And there a matron lay,
The love of Him who died to save,
Had been her spirit's stay,
Yet sobs burst forth of torturing pain;
Wail ye for her who died?
No, for that timid, infant train
Who roam without a guide.
I murmur not for those who die,
Who rise to glory's sphere,
I deem the tenants of the sky
Need not our mortal tear,
Our woe seems arrogant and vain,
Perchance it moves their scorn,
As if the slave beneath his chain,
Deplored the princely born.
We live to meet a thousand foes,
We shrink with bleeding breast,
Why shall we weakly mourn for those
Who dwell in perfect rest?
Bound for a few sad, fleeting years
A thorn-clad path to tread,
Oh! for the living spare those tears
Ye lavish on the dead.