The Funeral

THE paper black'd a full inch deep,
At every corner seem'd to weep;
The seal with fearful speed was broke,
When thus the Writer sadly spoke:—
" Oh Charles, belov'd! my dear is dead,
" And every bliss for ever fled;
" You and your wife, her constant friend,
" Her fun'ral rites must now attend."

The day approach'd; the solemn bell
In dismal notes rang Laura's knell;
Charles and his mate in blackness clad,
With rueful thoughts and faces sad
Saw her interr'd—heard "dust to dust,"
And cry'd—to this all come, and must.
The coaches now in sad array
Pace back the mournful late trod way;
Whilst floating plumes on shoulders borne,
The dusty lanes and streets adorn.

The widower sad, alone they found,
In sable length upon the ground.
His consolation, Charles essay'd,
And many a weary moment stay'd;
From Scripture cull'd a sacred store,
And drain'd, from heathenish learned lore,
All that was ever thought or said
To prove we can't call back the dead;
He sooth'd his tears at ev'ry gush,
And saw at length his sorrows hush.
Oh! Charles, James cried, thou'rt very kind!
This shall live long within my mind;—
How shall the friendship I repay
Thou'st prov'd upon this mournful day
Which tore my dearest wife away
And placed her with her kindred clay?
Charles rub'd his cheek, and thus replied,
With head a little turn'd aside—
Why, dearest James, thou shalt to me
Be just the friend I've been to thee;
Would Fate grant that, 'tis all I ask,
Be mine the SORROW, thine the TASK!