No more upon Parnassus' hill
Thou'lt string thy patriot lyre;
To tell those feats which nations thrill,
Which youthful spirits fire.
How, on the blood-red battle field
Great heroes fall, but never yield;
True courage is the only shield
Thy whole-souled Briton owns.
No more thou'lt sing thy graceful lays
Of rock, and mount, and stream;
Or cause the light from Heaven's pure rays
O'er nature's face to beam.
We heard the rustle of the tree,
The humming of the busy bee,
When nature waked to life with thee
In joyous harmony.
But though thy harp is silent now,
And hearts may mourn thee long;
Where halos crown the victor's brow
Thou sing'st the angels' song.
Dust mingles with its kindred dust,
Soul joins the army of the just;--
Their Leader was thy hope and trust
Through life's long pilgrimage.
"THREE YEARS."
Here the pain, and gloom and sorrow,
Here the household lone and sad;
_There_ the ever-bright to-morrow,
There the youthful spirit glad.
_Here_ the parents vigil keeping
O'er the beauteous head laid low;
_There_ the eyes which know no weeping
Shall with rapture ever glow.
Bright as were the sunny tresses
Curling o'er the fair, young brow,
Richer far the crown that presses
Round his seraph forehead now.
Clear and chaste as crystal seemeth,
Worthless is it 'side the gem;
So, howe'er earth's beauty gleameth,
Pales its 'fore Heaven's diadem.
Now, his gracious word believing,
Who on earth with woe did weep,
Mingle trustful joy with grieving
O'er the loved, who rests in sleep.
For, where groups of children gather,
He hath joined the choir of praise
Which, around our Heavenly Father,
Chants the hymn of deathless days.
[Illustration]