A DIRGE.

POET! lonely is thy bed,

And the turf is overhead,

Cold earth is thy cover; But thy heart hath found release, And it slumbers full of peace

'Neath the rustle of green trees,

And the warm hum of the bees

Mid the drowsy clover;

Through thy chamber still as death

A smooth gurgle wandereth,

As the blue stream murmureth

To the blue sky over.

Where thy stainless clay doth lie

Clear and open is the sky,

And the white clouds wander by,

Dreams of summer, silently

Darkening the river;

Thou hearest the clear water run,

And the ripples, every one

Scattering the golden sun,

Through thy silence quiver.

Thou wast full of love and truth,

Of forgivingness and ruth,—

Thy great heart with hope and youth

Tided to o'erflowing;

Thou didst dwell in mysteries,

And there lingered on thine eyes

Shadows of serener skies,

Awfully wild memories

That were like foreknowing;

Thou didst remember well and long

Some fragments of thine angel-song,

And strive, through want, and woe, and wrong,

To win the world unto it;

Thy curse it was to see and hear
Beyond to-day's scant hemisphere,

Beyond all mists of doubt and fear,
Into a life more true and clear,-

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And dearly thou didst rue it.

Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap!" Muttered Earth, turning in her sleep;

"Come home to the eternal deep!"

Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep

Of wings through thy soul's hush did creep, As of thy doom o'erflying;

It seemed as thy strong heart would leap

Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep,

But not with fear of dying;

Men could not fathom thy deep fears,

They could not understand thy tears,
The hoarded agony of years

Of bitter self-denying ;

So once, when, high above the spheres,
Thy spirit sought its starry peers,
It came not back to face the jeers

Of brothers who denied it;

Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps

Of God, and thy white body sleeps

Where the lone pine for ever keeps

Patient watch beside it.

Poet! underneath the turf,

Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow;

Thou hast struggled through the surf

Of wild thoughts, and want, and sorrow;

Now, beneath the moaning pine,

Full of rest thy body lieth,

While, far up in pure sunshine,
Underneath a sky divine,

Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth!
Oft she strove to spread them here,
But they were too white and clear

For our dingy atmosphere.

Thy body findeth ample room
In its still and grassy tomb

By the silent river ;

But thy spirit found the earth

Narrow for the mighty birth

Which it dreamed of ever;

Thou wast guilty of a rhyme

Learned in a benigner clime,

And of that more grievous crime,—

An ideal too sublime

For the low-hung sky of Time.

The calm spot where thy body lies
Gladdens thy soul in Paradise,
It is so still and holy;

Thy body sleeps serenely there,
And well for it thy soul may care,

It was so beautiful and rare,

Lily-white so wholly :

From so pure and sweet a frame

Thy spirit parted as it came,

Gentle as a maiden;

Now it hath its full of rest,
Sods are lighter on its breast

Than the great prophetic guest
Wherewith it was laden.