Let none tell my father, Or my mother so dear,-- 10 I’ll meet them both in heaven At the spring of the year. _Allan Cunningham._ CCLIII _BURIAL OF THE DEAD._ I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemed Death’s interposing veil, and thou so pure, Thy place in Paradise Beyond where I could soar; Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts 5 Spring like unbidden violets from the sod, Where patiently thou tak’st Thy sweet and sure repose. The shadows fall more soothing, the soft air Is full of cheering whispers like thine own; 10 While Memory, by thy grave, Lives o’er thy funeral day; The deep knell dying down; the mourners’ pause, Waiting their Saviour’s welcome at the gate; Sure with the words of Heaven 15 Thy spirit met us there, And sought with us along the accustomed way The hallowed porch, and entering in beheld The pageant of sad joy, So dear to Faith and Hope. 20 Oh, hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise To cheer us, happy soul! thou hadst not touched The sacred springs of grief More tenderly and true, Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low, 25 Low as the grave, high as the eternal Throne, Guiding through light and gloom Our mourning fancies wild, Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve Around the western twilight, all subside 30 Into a placid Faith, That e’en with beaming eye Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall: So many relics of a frail love lost, So many tokens dear 35 Of endless love begun. Listen! it is no dream: the Apostle’s trump Gives earnest of the Archangel’s: calmly now, Our hearts yet beating high To that victorious lay, 40 Most like a warrior’s, to the martial dirge Of a true comrade, in the grave we trust Our treasure for a while; And if a tear steal down, If human anguish o’er the shaded brow 45 Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth Touches the coffin-lid; If at our brother’s name Once and again the thought, ‘For ever gone,’ Comes o’er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright, 50 Thou turnest not away, Thou know’st us calm at heart. One look, and we have seen our last of thee, Till we too sleep, and our long sleep be o’er: O cleanse us, ere we view 55 That countenance pure again,