Page:Poems Douglas.djvu/108

'Tis no untimely fruit Death gathers in—
 He bowed his head 'neath ripe and honoured years;
He is gone home—home from the thrall, and sin,
 And weary wanderings in this vale of tears."

"Ah!" sigh the mourners, "vacancy is left,
 As when a jewel from a chaplet's fled,
And sorrow known but to the sore bereft
 Comes with the thought that he is of the dead:
He, the too simple for the world's great mart,
 Though far for learning's high perfections famed,
Accomplished, kind, compassionate of heart,
 To be but as a memory henceforth named."

"He is gone home—home to the passed away—
 The loved, who crossed the shadowy bourne before,
The spirit land, where no earth care can stray,"
 Floats in the soft triumphant voice once more.
Where wife, sire, mother, slumber side by side,
 The clay-revered place in its bed of earth;
And still let Scotland boast with sacred pride
 She holds their hallowed dust and place of birth.

With feelings that no foot unbared should tread
 The spot made sacred long by Burns's bier,
In deep solemnity they place the dead
 By "bonnie Jean," with many a votive tear.
"Left us for ever—stepped into the night,"
 The mourners falter, "ne'er in sight to come;"
"Gone," the voice murmurs, "into endless light,
 Gone to the dear departed home—gone home."