Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/A Wish

A Wish.

Oh for the dreamless rest of those
 That in the dust serenely sleep—
That feel no more their own wild woes,
 That hear no more their kindred weep!

How blest are those that in the clay
 Forget the pangs this being gave!
No fears appal, no hopes betray,
 The peaceful inmates of the grave.

Though near the house of pray'r they lie,
 They never hear the Sabbath-bell;
Nor when the funeral passes by,
 Start at the dead man's passing knell.

Though whirlwinds wild o'er Nature sweep,
 Though battles fill the world with woes,
Though orphans wail, and widows weep,
 It ne'er disturbs their calm repose.

Though there no coral lips be prest,
 Though there shall heave no mutual sighs;
No cheek repose on beauty's breast—
 Yet oh, how still the sleeper lies!

Though there no friendly hand shall shake
 The hand of friendship any more—
What then?—the heart that wished to break
 Is broken, and the strife is o'er.

No tear-drops o'er the cold cheek start,
 No dark shades o'er the spirit wave;
No writhing pang distracts the heart
 Of those that moulder in the grave.

Oh, for the dreamless rest of those
 That in the grave serenely sleep—
That feel no more their own wild woes,
 That hear no more their kindred weep!