Funeral of a Neighbour

Ah! can that funeral knell be thine,Thou, at whose image kindSo many long-remember'd scenesCome rushing o'er my mind?Thy rural home behind the trees,Thy bowers with roses dress'd,And the bright eye and beaming smile,That cheer'd each entering guest.

There, when our children, hand in hand,Pursued their earnest play,It drew our hearts more closely still,To see their own so gay,And hear their merry laughter ringAround the evening hearth,While the loud threat of winter's stormBroke not their hour of mirth.

'Tis strange that I should seek in vainThat mansion, once so fair,And find the spot where erst it stoodAll desolate and bare;Its smooth green bank, on which so thickThe dappled daisies grew—How passing strange, that from its placeEven that has vanish'd too.

But thou, whatever change or cloudDeform'd this lower sky,Hadst still a fountain in thy heartWhose streams were never dry;A fountain of perennial hope,That never ceased to flow,And give its sky-fed crystals forthTo every child of wo.

Thy frequent visits to my couch,If sickness paled my cheek,And all thy sympathetic love,Which language cannot speak,How strong those recollections riseTo wake the grateful tear,For deeds like these more precious growWith every waning year.

I cannot think that bitter griefWould please thy happy soul,Raised as thou art to that bless'd worldWhere tempests never roll;But may thy dearest and thy best,The children of thy care,Walk steadfast in thy chosen path,And joyful meet thee there.