CCC

THE FUNERAL FEAST

OH think not that with garlands crown'd
Inhuman near thy grave we tread,

Or blushing roses scatter round,

To mock the paleness of the dead.

What though we drain the fragrant bowl
In flowers adorn'd, and silken vest;
Oh think not, brave departed soul,
We revel to disturb thy rest.

Feign'd is the pleasure that appears,
And false the triumph of our eyes;
Our draughts of joy are dash'd with tears,
Our songs imperfect end in sighs.

We only mourn; o'er flowery plains
To roam in joyous trance is thine;
And pleasures unallied to pains,
Unfading sweets, immortal wine.

R. BLAND.

CCCI

A DIRGE

NAIAD, hid beneath the bank,
By the willowy river-side,
Where Narcissus gently sank,

Where unmarried Echo died,

Unto thy serene repose

Waft the stricken Anterôs.

Where the tranquil swan is borne,
Imaged in a watery glass,

Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn

Stoop to catch the boats that pass,

Where the earliest orchid grows,

Bury thou fair Anterôs.

Glide we by, with prow and oar:
Ripple shadows off the wave,
And, reflected on the shore,
Haply play about the grave.
Folds of summer-light enclose
All that once was Anterôs.

On a flickering wave we gaze,

Not upon his answering eyes :

Flower and bird we scarce can praise,

Having lost his sweet replies:

Cold and mute the river flows

With our tears for Anterôs.

W. CORY.

CCCII

SONG

OH! never, no, never,
Thou 'It meet me again!

Thy spirit for ever

Has burst from its chain;
The links thou has broken

Are all that remain,

For never, oh! never,

Thou 'It meet me again.

Like the sound of the viol,
That dies on the blast;
Like the shade on the dial,
Thy spirit has pass'd.
The breezes blow round me,

But give back no strain ;
The shade on the dial

Returns not again.

Where roses enshrined thee,

In light trellis'd shade,

Still hoping to find thee,
How oft have I strayed!
Thy desolate dwelling

I traverse in vain ;—
The stillness has whisper'd
Thou 'lt ne'er come again.

CAROLINE OLIPHANT.

CCCIII

IN MEMORIAM

THOU wert the first of all I knew

To pass unto the dead,

And Paradise hath seemed more true,

And come down closer to my view,
Since there thy presence fled.

The whispers of thy gentle soul

At silent lonely hours,

Like some sweet saint-bell's distant toll, Come o'er the waters as they roll,

Betwixt thy world and ours.

Oh! still my spirit clings to thee,
And feels thee at my side;
Like a green ivy, when the tree,
Its shoots had clasped so lovingly,

Within its arms hath died:

And ever round that lifeless thing
Where first their clusters grew,
Close as while yet it lived they cling,
And shrine it in a second spring

Of lustre dark and new.

T. WHYTEHEAD.

CCCIV

ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL

OH! cold and drear my heart has grown Since that sweet soul of thine is flown: Like the warm ivy to the tree,

Wast thou, my darling child, to me.

And close as those green tendrils twine,
Thy gentle spirit clung to mine;
Dismantled now and lone it grows,
And bare to every wind that blows.

To the cold world I turned, to rest
On its false lap my bleeding breast,
But eyes that weep, and hearts that care
For others' woes, I found not there.