GLOOMY and black are the cypress-trees, Drearily waileth the chill night breeze. The long grass waveth, the tombs are white, And the black clouds flit o'er the chill moonlight. Silent is all save the dropping rain, When slowly there cometh a mourning train; The lone churchyard is dark and dim, And the mourners raise a funeral hymn. Where she will soon be sleeping Nor joy nor love is keeping Gloomy and black are the cypress-trees, And drearily wave in the chill night breeze. The dark clouds part and the heavens are blue, Where the trembling stars are shining through. Slowly across the gleaming sky, A crowd of white angels are passing by. Like a fleet of swans they float along, Or the silver notes of a dying song. Like a cloud of incense their pinions rise, Fading away up the purple skies. But hush! for the silent glory is stirred "Open, dark grave, and take By a strain such as earth has her; never heard: Open, O Heaven! we bear her, This gentle maiden mild, Earth's griefs we gladly spare her, From earthly joys we tear her, Still undefiled; And to thine arms we bear her, Thine own, thy child. |