Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk When in his own dear home The traveller rests at last, And tells how often in his wanderings The thought of those far off Hath made his eyes o'erflow Delighted he recalls Thro' what fair scenes his charmed feet have trod. But ever when he tells of perils past, And troubles now no more, His eyes most sparkle, and a readier joy No, William! no, I would not live again I would not be again The slave of hope and fear, I would not learn again The wisdom by Experience hardly taught. To me the past presents The future,.. it is now the chearful noon, And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze With eyes alive to joy; When the dark night descends, I willingly shall close my weary lids The DEAD FRIEND. Not to the grave, not to the grave my Soul The form that once was dear! The Spirit is not there That kindled that dead eye, That throbb'd in that cold heart, That in that motionless hand Has met thy friendly grasp. The Spirit is not there! It is but lifeless, perishable, flesh That moulders in the grave, Earth, air and waters ministering particles Now to the elements Resolv'd, their uses done. Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Follow thy friend beloved, The Spirit is not there! Often together have we talk'd of death; All doubtful things made clear; To view the depth of Heaven! Begun the travel of Eternity! And think that thou art there, And we have often said how sweet it were To watch the friends we loved. Edmund! we did not err ! Sure I have felt thy presence! thou hast giver Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure. Our best affections here They are not like the toys of infancy; We do not cast them off, Oh if it could be so It were indeed a dreadful thing to die? |