Baroness de Rothschild

THOUGH life may fade, love never dies,

And all but love, is now a dream

To her, who in her long sleep lies

Enwrapped in flowers, and love supreme.

What, if the solemn shadows stir,

To sobbing sighs and broken prayer,

Love folds its mantle over her

And shields her, in its tender care.

Sadly the mystic hours of night

Flit past, still undisturbed by these,

Or sudden glow of morning light

Or waking birds, or waving trees.

She lies, who heeds not days and hours,

The sweet, soft bird song, nor one tear

Beneath her canopy of flowers

Indifferent now to joy and fear.

Earth’s voices touch her not; nor grieve

Her warm and generous heart with pain,

O sorrowing mourners, we believe

That God shall raise her up again,

That in some half-guessed, happier sphere,

Some perfect world, but part confessed

To us poor mortals weeping here,

“He giveth His beloved rest.”

And so Beloved, we part from you,

We, clothed by you, and housed and fed,

Not hopeless, though the words are true,

Our blessed Baroness is dead!

The poor, your monument shall raise,

Statelier than sculptured tomb above

That cherished form, of love and praise

Who loved her God; whose God is love.