THE DAYSPRING.
BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON.
Mourner, bending o'er the tomb
Where thy heart's dear treasure lies,
Dark and dreary is thy gloom,
Deep and burdened are thy sighs:
From thy path the light, whose rays
Cheered and guided thee, is gone,
And the future's desert waste
Thou must sadly tread alone.
'Neath the drooping willow's shade,
Where the mourning cypress grows,
The beloved and lost is laid
In a quiet, calm repose.
Silent now the voice whose tones
Wakened rapture in thy breast—
Dull the ear—thy anguished groans
Break not on the sleeper's rest.
Grace and loveliness are fled,
Broken is the "golden bowl,"
Loosed the "silver chord," whose thread
Bound to earth th' immortal soul.
Closed the eyes whose glance so dear
Once love's language fond could speak,
And the worm, foul banqueter,
Riots on that matchless cheek.
And the night winds, as they sweep
In their solemn grandeur by,
With a cadence wild and deep,
Mournfully their requiem sigh.
And each plant and leaf and flower
Bows responsive to the wail,
Chanted, at the midnight hour,
By the spirits of the gale.
Truly has thy sun gone down
In the deepest, darkest gloom,
And the fondest joys thou'st known
Buried are within that tomb.
Earth no solace e'er can bring
To thy torn and bleeding heart—
Time nor art extract the sting
From the conqueror's poisoned dart.