Hark, my soul, it is the Lord,
He's gone! the glorious spirit's fled,
How still the morning of the hallowed day!
How strange is the course that a Christian must steer,
I asked an aged man,-a man of cares,
I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
I culled each floweret for my fair,
I had a friend who died in early youth,
I hear thee speak of the better land,
I pity bashful men, who feel the pain,
I saw an aged beggar in my walk,
I used to love thee, simple flower,
I wish I was where Anna lies,
I would but cannot sing,
In evil long I took delight,
In man or woman, but far most in man,
It is not that my lot is low,
It is the funeral march. I did not think,.
Little grief disturbed our breasts that hour,
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,
Man hath a weary pilgrimage,
Man like a flower at morn appears, ......
Mark yon old mansion, frowning through the trees, ..........
My father is dead, and my mother is dead,
Night is the time for rest,
Not a drum was heard,-not a funeral note,
O for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale?
O leave the lily on its stem,
O most delightful hour by man,
O stranger! let no ill-timed tear, ..............
O'tis not while the fairy breeze fans the green ocean, .......
O think, that while you're weeping here,
O thou whose beams the sea-girt earth array,
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Of all my race there breathes not one,