Page:The Court Magazine Tributes.pdf/6



O how weary is the heart, When we gaze on those we love, Death hath bidden to depart, Though it be to realms above. Oft we kiss the milk-white hand, But its touch is cold as lead; Veil'd in silent grief we stand Mourning o'er the early dead.

In the wan and moveless face, And the ever closed eyes, Not a joy, or grief we trace, All in mystic stillness lies. E'en the hair is hidden now, And we find a shroud instead, Circling round the marble brow Of the tranquil early dead.

Look at that pale rigid cheek— Fear not! it will blush no more, For the spirit here, so meek, Far hath flown to heaven's shore. Yet though hush'd she be in sleep, Come around with noiseless tread Weeping vigils we will keep Nightly by the early dead.

Death's cold hand hath stopp'd her breath, Waking she will never know, Till victorious over death, She shall hear the trumpets blow.