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, 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! Yes; III. thou art gone-our hearth's delight, Our boy so fond and dear ; No more thy smiles to glad our sight, Like lightning hath thy race been run, IV. Now winter, with its snow departs, But summer smiles not on the hearts The young May weaves her flowery crown, 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, 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 Vainly, in each familiar place, Then, sudden, o'er these fancies crush'd, We know that sound for ever hush'd— We look upon thy grave. IX. O heavenly child of mortal birth! 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. 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, Who now a seraph art? XII. A little while-a little while- Oh! that we were where now thou art, Not lost, but gone before. 8 April 1838. |