146
poems.
Oh, from the rock that crowns the hill,
From the top of the windy steep,
Speak, and the wild blast kindly fill
With loving word and deep.
I shall not fear, ghosts of the dead;
Speak! whither, whither have ye gone?
In what cave? Ah, whither have ye fled?
My voice is on the gale alone.
No answer, swept in the ruthless storm
Far from the broken heart,
Comes sweet to calm her wild alarm;
Is it thus, belov'd, we part?
I sit in my grief while I wait
For the morn in mine own sad tears.
Rear ye the tomb, the tomb in state,
My friends of my happier years:
Close it not until Colma come.
My life now departs like a dream;
Oil, why should I ere stay at home?
I will rest with them by the stream,—
The stream where the echo resounds,
And, when night on the hill descends
And winds rise to visit their bounds,
I will mourn o'er the death of my friends.
From the top of the windy steep,
Speak, and the wild blast kindly fill
With loving word and deep.
I shall not fear, ghosts of the dead;
Speak! whither, whither have ye gone?
In what cave? Ah, whither have ye fled?
My voice is on the gale alone.
No answer, swept in the ruthless storm
Far from the broken heart,
Comes sweet to calm her wild alarm;
Is it thus, belov'd, we part?
I sit in my grief while I wait
For the morn in mine own sad tears.
Rear ye the tomb, the tomb in state,
My friends of my happier years:
Close it not until Colma come.
My life now departs like a dream;
Oil, why should I ere stay at home?
I will rest with them by the stream,—
The stream where the echo resounds,
And, when night on the hill descends
And winds rise to visit their bounds,
I will mourn o'er the death of my friends.
