Dirge and Hymeneal

Dirge.

Woe! woe! this is death's hour
Of spring; behold his flower!
Fair babe of life, to whom
Death, and the dreamy tomb,
Was nothing yesterday,
And now is all!
The maiden, from her play
Beside her lover gay,
The church-yard voices call,
Tolling so slow,
Woe! woe!

Hymeneal.

Joy! joy! it is love's day;
Strew the young conqueror's way
With summer's glories young,
O'er which the birds have sung,
Bright weeds from fairy rings;
Here, there, away!
Joy, joy the tree-bird sings,
Joy, joy, a hundred springs'
Melodies ever say,—
Maiden and boy,
Joy! joy!

Dirge.

She cut the roses down,
And wreathed her bridal crown.
Death, playful, culled her blossom,
And tore her from life's bosom.
Fair maiden, or fair ghost,—
Which is thy name?—
Come to the spectral host;
They pity thee the most,
And, to the cold world's shame,
Soft cry they, low,
Woe! woe!