THE DEAD FRIEND.

NOT to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear!

The spirit is not there

Which kindled that dead eye,

Which throbbed in that cold heart,
Which in that motionless hand
Hath met thy friendly grasp.
The spirit is not there!

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh

That moulders in the grave,

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Follow thy friend beloved,

The spirit is not there!

Often together have we talked of death:
How sweet it were to see

All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were, with powers
Such as the Cherubim,

121

THE DEAD FRIEND.

To view the depth of Heaven!
O Edmund! thou hast first
Begun the travel of Eternity!
I look upon the stars,

And think that thou art there,

Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were
With unseen ministry of angel power
To watch the friends we loved.

Edmund, we did not err !

Sure I have felt thy presence! thou hast given A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstained and

pure.

Edmund, we did not err !

Our best affections here,

They are not like the toys of infancy;
The soul outgrows them not;

We do not cast them off;

Oh, if it could be so,

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die!

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour,

But in the evening walk,

Think that he companies thy solitude;

THE DEAD FRIEND.

Think that he holds with thee
Mysterious intercourse:

And though remembrance wake a tear,
There will be joy in grief.

SOUTHEY.

13

"AND IF THERE BE WHOSE TENDER FRAMES HAVE DROOPED."

AND if there be whose tender frames have drooped

Even to the dust, apparently through weight
Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power
An agonizing sorrow to transmute,
Infer not hence a hope from those withheld
When wanted most; a confidence impaired
So pitiably that, having ceased to see
With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love
Of what is lost, and perish through regret..
Oh no! full oft the innocent sufferer sees
Too clearly, feels too vividly, and longs
To realize the vision with intense

And over-constant yearning: there, there lies
The excess, by which the balance is destroyed.
Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh,
This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs,
Though inconceivably endowed, too dim
For any passion of the soul that leads
To ecstasy, and, all the crooked paths

Of time and change disdaining, takes its course
Along the lines of limitless desires.

WORDSWORTH.

THRENODY.

Aн, vainly do these eyes recall
The school-march, each day's festival,
When every morn my bosom glowed
To watch the convoy on the road;
The babe in willow wagon closed,
With rolling eyes and face composed ;
With children forward and behind,
Like Cupids studiously inclined;
And he the chieftain paced beside,
The centre of the troop allied,
With sunny face of sweet repose,
To guard the babe from fancied foes.
The little captain innocent

Took the eye with him as he went ;
Each village senior paused to scan
And speak the lovely caravan.
From the window I look out
To mark thy beautiful parade,
Stately marching in cap and coat
To some tune by fairies played;
A music heard by thee alone
To works as noble led thee on.