Poems (Gould, 1833)/Funeral Dirge
FUNERAL DIRGE.
Lift not, lift not, the shadowy pall From the beauteous form it veileth;Nor ask, as the offerings of sorrow fall, Who it is that the mourner waileth!
We could not look on a face so dear, With the burial gloom surrounding,A name so cherished we must not hear, While her funeral knell is sounding!
But seek with the throng of the young and fair Their loveliest still to number;—You will find her not! for 'tis her we bear In the mansion of death to slumber!
She shone to our sight like a gladdening ray Of light, that awhile was givenTo brighten the earth, and has passed away, Undimmed, to its source in heaven!