XII. We are wicked-we are weary— May through you the sinful heed: All our faults may be forgiven ; Plead that ye be sent to greet us At the gates of Heaven! March 1838. CASA'S DIRGE. I. VAINLY for us the sunbeams shine, Dimm'd is our joyous hearth h; O Casa, dearer dust than thine Ne'er mixed with mother earth! Thou wert the corner-stone of love, The keystone of our fate; Thou art not! Heaven scowls dark above, And earth is desolate! II. Ocean may rave with billows curl'd, And fresh flowers blossom; but this world Closed are the eyes which bade rejoice Our hearts till love ran o'er; Thy smile is vanish'd, and thy voice Silent for evermore! III Yes; thou art gone-our hearth's delight, No more thy smiles to glad our sight, No more thy presence, like the sun, Like lightning hath thy race been run, IV. Now winter, with its snow departs, green leaves clothe the tree; But summer smiles not on the hearts The That bleed and break for thee: The young May weaves her flowery crown, Her boughs in beauty wave; They only shake their blossoms down Upon thy silent grave. V. Dear to our souls is every spot Where thy small feet have trod; There odours, breathed from Eden, float, And sainted is the sod; The wild-bee with its buglet fine, The blackbird singing free, Melt both thy Mother's heart and mineThey speak to us of thee! VI. Only in dreams thou comest now Since thou from earth art gone. VII. Thine were the fond, endearing ways, A thousand wiles to win our praise, And, Casa, can it be That nought of all the past remains Except vain tears for thee? VIII. Idly we watch thy form to trace Then, sudden, o'er these fancies crush'd, IX. O heavenly child of mortal birth! Our thoughts of thee arise, Not as a denizen of earth, But inmate of the skies: To feel that life renew'd is thine, We quaff from out Faith's cup divine, And Sabbath fills our hearts. X. Thou leanest where the fadeless wands Of amaranth bend o'er ; Thy white wings brush the golden sands Of Heaven's refulgent shore. Thy home is where the psalm and song Of angels choir abroad; And blessed spirits, all day long, Bask round the throne of God. XI. There chance and change are not; the soul Quaffs bliss as from a sea, And years, through endless ages, roll, From sin and sorrow free: There gush for aye fresh founts of joy, New raptures to impart ; Oh! dare we call thee still our boy, XII. A little while-a little while-- Oh! that we were where now thou art, April 1838. |