FUNEREAL SKETCHES. 181 



She slowly approached him, she smote — and he fell, 

 The blow hath sped — Sisera ! — deadly and well ; 

 By the gate of Harosheth his mother shall wail 

 That rent in his forehead, the mark of the nail. 



No. VII. 

 COME AWAY. 



The hour of prayer — the hour of prayer ! 



That sweetly solemn call. 

 Rung forth upon the sabbath air. 

 From worldly pain and worldly care 



Bids soft release for all ; 

 A voice to wake o'er land and sea, 

 A cry to Nature — Bow the knee ! 



The righteous dead — the righteous dead 



Their holiest influence fling, 

 Adown the monumental ile, 

 Where kindred spirits breathe, — and smile 



That death hath lost its sting ; — 

 And powerful, like the prophet's rod, 

 Draw up the worshippers to God. 



No. VIII. 

 THE NEW BURIAL GROUND. 



They were but two, two lonely dead. 



Beneath their silent mound. 

 To warn the stranger of his tread 



On consecrated ground : 

 O'er them, to rest so newly laid, 



The wall-flower*s bloom appears. 

 Arising from its lowly bed 



Fresh washed by mourners* tears. 



And one — who was a sickly lad, 



Born far beyond the wave — 

 From out the hamlet poor-house had 



Been carried to his grave ; 

 He pined so patiently that those 



Who watched his latest moan, 

 The passport from his earthly woes. 



Wept o'er him as their own. 



