Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
A DirgeRobert Nicoll (18141837)
S
The grass is o’er ye growing
In dewy greenness. Ever fled
From you hath Care; and, in its stead,
Peace hath with you its dwelling made,
Where tears do cease from flowing.
Sleep on!
Life’s ever-burning fever—
Nor scorn that sears, nor pains that steel
And blanch the loving heart, until
’Tis like the bed of mountain-rill
Which waves have left for ever!
Sleep on!
Upon your mother’s bosom;
Yea, and your peaceful lonely bed
Is all with sweet wild-flowers inlaid;
And over each earth-pillowed head
The hand of Nature strews them.
Sleep on!
At rest within your dwelling,—
No more to feel, no more to bear
The world’s falsehood and its care—
The arrows it doth never spare
On him whose feet are failing.
Sleep on!