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n8 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Is the good man unfriended
On life's ocean-path,
Where storms have expended
Their turbulent wrath ?
Are his labors requited by slander and rancor ?
The grave, the grave is his sure bower-anchor !
To gaze on the faces
Of lost ones anew,
To lock in embraces
The loved and the true,
Were a rapture to make even Paradise brighter.
The grave, the grave is the great reuniter !
Crown the corpse then with laurels,
The conqueror's wreath,
Make joyous with carols
The chamber of death,
And welcome the victor with cymbal and psalter:
The grave, the grave is the only exalter ! |
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THE NAMELESS ONE
ROLL forth, my song, like the rushing river That sweeps along to the mighty sea; God will inspire me while I deliver My soul to thee !
Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening
Amid the last homes of youth and eld, That there once was one whose veins ran lightning No eye beheld. |
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