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The shining leaves From linden stems come forth in tenderest green ; And where May's gathered blossoms should have been,
By woodland eaves,
The ambient light
But hawthorns white,
Red roses bloom;
Joy scatters gloom,
So drift away
Fair souls of maidens on dark waves of time,
Like our lost May !
Sadly three maidens were sighing,
Anxiously watching each breath;
In the filmy visions of death.
The sleep that dispelleth all pain :
Serenely has death taken place ;
O daughters ! from grieving refrain !
For the anguish and sorrow and dread,
Are hallowed by thoughts that dwell
And who loved him in life so well.
Peace sits on the warrior's brow,
He sleepeth the sleep of the brave;
He hath come to an English grave.
He defied the keen sabre's red stroke,
He was spared from the bullet and shell;
Where his comrades by squadrons fell.
They have borne him away to the tomb,
With its shade like the dark black night;
Where the sunshine falls warmly and bright.
Few escape from such fierce battle strife!
For whom rings Fame's clarion so loudly?
Think of him, gratefully, proudly !
TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.
Weep not, although her form is laid
Within that dreary tomb,
In nights of sleepless gloom;
May come, alas ! too soon,
God's mercy grants a boon.
A life of sweetness lose,
The fragrance they diffuse.
In piety and peace;
Its earthly duties cease.
Where undimmed virtues blend,
The mother, wife, and friend;
Bids consolation say
Now takes its own away."
EPITAPH IN THE CHURCHYARD AT WORTH,
ON JOHN ALOORN, CLERK AND SEXTON.
Obiit 1868. Anno Ætatis 81. " Time honored friend !—for fifty-three full years He saw each bridal's joy, each burial's tears. Within the walls by Saxons reared of old,
By the stone-sculptured font of antique mould,
CURIOUS OLD LATIN EPITAPH,
NICHOLAS WHISTON, RECTOR OF WORTH, Obüt 1638.
Hic dolor hic infra Worthae decus accubat ingens
En: magis hoc tumulo Wortha Sepulta cubat Nam quae vicinis modo claruit unica villis
Obruta pastoris funere Wortha jacet Wortha jacet simili vix surrectura ministro
Vix iterum simili restituenda viro Namque sub hoc uno tanta est conclusa sepulchro
Quanta solet virtus vivere quanta mori.
TRANSLATION. Here grief supreme, here Worth’s vast honor sleeps. Or rather Worth herseli sepultured weeps ! She, who of late outshone each hamlet near, O’erwhelmed by her dear pastor's death moan's here,
How faint the hope again to rise and find
Open the hall-door wide,
Full fourscore years have sped,
Gladdened a parent's breast,
Hushed on a mother's breast.
Eighty winters have shed
Eighty summers have spread
Over the hill side crops,
Open once more the door,
To track an unseen road,
To cross, ah! never more,
The door is opened wide,