THE POST OF HONOR.
17
Thou generous brother, guard of griefs concealed,
Matured by sorrow, deep but unrevealed,
Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here,
The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere.
Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred dust,
And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallowed trust,
To Elia's grave the pilgrim shall repair,
And hang with love perennial garlands there.
And thou, great Bard of never-dying name,10
Thy filial care outshines the poet's fame;
For who, that wanders by the dust of Gray
While memory tolls the knell of parting day,
But lingers fondly at the hallowed tomb,
That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom,
To bless the son who poured that gushing tear,
So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier!
Wreaths for that line which Woman's tribute gave,
"Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave."
Can I forget, a Pilgrim o'er the sea,
The countless shrines of Woman's charity?
Matured by sorrow, deep but unrevealed,
Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here,
The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere.
Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred dust,
And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallowed trust,
To Elia's grave the pilgrim shall repair,
And hang with love perennial garlands there.
And thou, great Bard of never-dying name,10
Thy filial care outshines the poet's fame;
For who, that wanders by the dust of Gray
While memory tolls the knell of parting day,
But lingers fondly at the hallowed tomb,
That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom,
To bless the son who poured that gushing tear,
So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier!
Wreaths for that line which Woman's tribute gave,
"Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave."
Can I forget, a Pilgrim o'er the sea,
The countless shrines of Woman's charity?
