Funeral Dirge.
Air—Pleyel's Hymn.
Solemn strikes the funeral chime,
Notes of our departing time,
As we journey here below
Through a pilgrimage of woe.
Mortals, now indulge a tear,
For Mortality is here;
See how wide her trophies wave,
O'er the slumber of the grave!
Here another guest we bring;
Seraphs of celestial wing,
To our funeral altar come,
Waft our friend and brother home.
Lord of all! below—above—
Fill our hearts with truth and love;
When dissolves our earthly tie,
Take us to Thy lodge on high.
Hark, From the Tombs.
Hark, from the tombs, a doleful sound,
Mine ears attend the cry:
"Ye living men; come view the ground
Where you must shortly lie.
"Princes, this clay must be your bed,
In spite of all your towers;
The tall, the wise, the reverend head
Must lie as low as ours."
Great God! Is this our certain doom?
And are we still secure?
Still walking downward to the tomb,
And yet prepared no more?