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360 FOREST MELODIES.
He sleeps in death—that silent tongue Has ceased to charm our circle here;
His harp, upon the willows hung, No more shall strike the list'ner's ear.
But far above this world of woe, I trace his spirit's homeward flight;
Where joys, that mortals may not know, Are bursting on his ravish'd sight.
There, on the plains of Paradise, He strikes a lyre of wond'rous tone ;
Before him scenes of beauty rise, And near him is the eternal throne.
But round his dust we gather now, The silent tear flows down each cheek;
The broken sigh—the voice so low— Ah ! language fails our grief to speak.
Sad mourners ! dry the falling tear— No longer weep for one so blest!
Too heavenly for this troubled sphere, He left us for his endless rest.
Lay the prized relics in the tomb, And plant the flowers above his bed!
There let the rose and violet bloom— Sleep, loved one, with the early dead! |
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