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DIRGE OF A CHILD.
No bitter tears for thee be shed,
O blest departed one!
Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power
That never felt a storm !
Thou wert so like a form of light,
O’er thy sweet innocence:
Oh ! hadst thou still on earth remain'd,
With passion or with grief!
We rear no marble o'er thy tomb,
Such dwelling to adorn.
Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Its incense there to breathe ;
And oft, upon the midnight air,
And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Some balm for human woes !
Son of the ocean isle !
Where sleep your mighty dead ? Show me what high and stately pile
Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.
Go, stranger ! track the deep,
Free, free, the white sail spread ! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o’ersway'd,
And the palm-trees yield no shade.
But let the angry sun
From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!
There slumber England's dead.
The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
Is heard the tiger's roar.
But let the sound roll on !
It hath no tone of dread,
- There slumber England's dead.
Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,
But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow's flight be sped ! Why should they reck whose task is done?
There slumber England's dead !
The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze.