To the Lord of angels
Praise devout I’ll sing,
That from out the grave-hill
’Twas my lot to bring
Golden dishes, goblets,
Things of mighty worth,
Which for thousand winters
Lay entombed in earth.
That men in gold smithery
Cunning, might from them
For the grey haired hero
Frame a diadem.
Under which his grey locks
Might all glorious shine,
Whilst the sun, bright flaming,
Seeks the western brine.
Until, tired of glory,
Such as meets it here,
Soars the hero’s spirit
To a higher sphere;
Where, with souls united
Of departed friends,
’Twill experience glory
Such as never ends.
A SURVEY OF DEATH
My blood is freezing, my senses reel,
So horror stricken at heart I feel;
Thinking how like a fast stream we range
Nearer and nearer to that dread change,
When the body becomes so stark and cold,
And man doth crumble away to mould.
Boast not, proud maid, for the grave doth gape,
And strangely altered reflects thy shape;
No dainty charms it doth disclose,
Death will ravish thy beauty’s rose;
And all the rest will leave to thee
When dug thy chilly grave shall be.
O, ye who are tripping the floor so light,
In delicate robes as the lily white,
Think of the fading funeral wreath,
The dying struggle, the sweat of death—
Think on the dismal death array,
When the pallid corse is consigned to clay!
O, ye who in quest of riches roam,
Reflect that ashes ye must become;
And the wealth ye win will brightly shine
When buried are ye and all your line;
For your many chests of much loved gold
You’ll nothing obtain but a little mould!