The blessèd ones who sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of God's-acre.

Patience! thou poor one, faint and weary,
For thou shalt come unto this rest,
And leaning on a mother's breast,
Forget the world to thee so dreary:
Calmly and sweetly the hours pass by
The happy ones who hoping lie
Deep in the bosom of God's-acre.





WIND.


Oh! weird West Wind, that comest from the sea,
Sad with the murmur of the weary waves,
Wand'ring for ever through old ocean caves,
Why troublest thou the hearts that list to thee,
With echoes of forgotten misery?

The night is black with clouds that thou art bringing
From the far waters of the stormy main,
Welling their woes forth wearily in rain,
Betwixt us and the light their dark course winging,
And dreary shadows o'er the spirit flinging.