xciv CHARLES CARDALE BABIN6T0N. 



[The following poem is taken from a privately printed volume, 

 " A Wreath of Wind-Flowers," by Thomas Hughes Corry (Belfast, 

 1882) pp. 56, 57. See above pp. xxiv, xxxiii.] 



A DIRGE. 



" We thought he slept." 



Sleep ! is this sleep, this rest so deep, unbroken, 



Which soothes that burning brow P 

 Nay, this is death ; God's everlasting token 



Of peace and comfort now. 



Yes, he has passed the dim and shadowy portal 



That bounds our earthly home. 

 And entered thro' those gates of pearl immortal, 



Beneath Heaven's golden dome. 



Life — life with us, so busy, eager, buoyant. 



Has passed away and fled ; 

 But tho' its impulse now is stilled and dormant. 



His spirit is not dead. 



Yet while we live, he still will move around us 



Till Time shall be no more, 

 Tho' his triumphant glory would confound us. 



Should it its radiance pour. 



His place is set within the throng of blessed. 



He sees his Saviour's face, 

 And knows his name by Christ our Lord confessed 



Before the throne of grace. 



But God, who is Himself the Strength and Giver 



Of all our life and breath. 

 Hath perfect power His children to deliver 



From the cold seal of death. 



Grieve, grieve no more, he is not dead, but living- 



In realms that need no sun, 

 But God's own light a lustrous splendour giving j 



His work on earth was done. 



