Page:Railway rhymer.pdf/6

 At length the dew of death
 * Creeps chilly o'er his brow;

But words profane on gurgling breath
 * Afford no comfort now.

Love marks his groping limb,
 * And look of wild distress.

And asks, if cramp, or phantoms grim
 * His feeble frame oppress?

"I'm rushing to a lake,
 * Adown a mountain steep;

But fails my foot to find the brakè,
 * To check our headlong sweep!"—

O Swearer, fear the Name
 * That makes the demons quake;

When faith beholds the bleeding Lamb,
 * Thy foot will find the brake!

How painful the silence that round me prevails, Since the voice of my Mary awakes not the dales; Ah! yes, thou art mute, but thy Morian Shehone Will raise thy lament, and thine absence bemoan.

Thy virtue, like snow, was so dazzling and fair, That youth gazed with rapture on beauty so rare, And age, like the ivy, for aid round thee clung, Entranced by the music that flowed from thy tongue