When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Runs up the ridged sea. Who can light on as happy a shore All the world o'er, all the world o'er? Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, fly no more. N A DIRGE. OW is done thy long day's work; Fold thy palms across thy breast, Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver birk Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Thee nor carketh care nor slander; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enshrouded form. Let them rave. Light and shadow ever wander O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; Let them rave. Thou wilt never raise thine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Crocodiles wept tears for thee; The woodbine and eglatere Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. Let them rave. Rain makes music in the tree O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, And long purples of the dale. These in every shower creep Thro' the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. The gold-eyed kingcups fine; The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidry of the purple clover. Let them rave. Kings have no such couch as thine, As the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Wild words wander here and there : God's great gift of speech abused But let them rave. The balm-cricket carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. |