104
Poems.
DEATH.
Oh, twine no flowers for the pallid brow,
The victor hath claimed his prize;
Death spread his wings on the midnight air,
And his trophy 's borne to the skies.
Though ye gather blossoms to deck the corse,
That hath bowed to the tyrant's power,
Decay is borne on the passing breeze,
And it spares not the loveliest flower.
The victor hath claimed his prize;
Death spread his wings on the midnight air,
And his trophy 's borne to the skies.
Though ye gather blossoms to deck the corse,
That hath bowed to the tyrant's power,
Decay is borne on the passing breeze,
And it spares not the loveliest flower.
I 've heard of a land where blight ne'er comes,
Where the conquests of death are o'er;
Where the cares of life, and disease's hand,
Shall trample the spirit no more.
Then let us speed on for a better home,
A haven of endless repose,
Where eye ne'er pales, where heart ne'er fails,
And celestial purity flows.
Where the conquests of death are o'er;
Where the cares of life, and disease's hand,
Shall trample the spirit no more.
Then let us speed on for a better home,
A haven of endless repose,
Where eye ne'er pales, where heart ne'er fails,
And celestial purity flows.
DIRGE.
Open a grave where the flowers bloom,
That the lowly bed may have perfume,
To soften the air of the lurid tomb,
Where the loved will rest.
That the lowly bed may have perfume,
To soften the air of the lurid tomb,
Where the loved will rest.
