Funeral Hymn.

"Man dieth and wasteth away,
    And where is he?"--Hark! from the skies
I hear a voice answer and say,
    "The spirit of man never dies:
His body, which came from the earth,
    Must mingle again with the sod;
But his soul, which in heaven had birth,
    Returns to the bosom of God."

No terror has death, or the grave,
    To those who believe in the Lord--
We know the Redeemer can save,
    And lean on the faith of his word;
While ashes to ashes, and dust
    We give unto dust, in our gloom,
The light of salvation, we trust,
    Is hung like a lamp in the tomb.

The sky will be burnt as a scroll--
    The earth, wrapped in flames, will expire;
But, freed from all shackles, the soul
    Will rise in the midst of the fire.
Then, brothers, mourn not for the dead,
    Who rest from their labors, forgiven;
Learn this from your Bible instead,
    The grave is the gateway to heaven.

O Lord God Almighty! to Thee
    We turn as our solace above;
The waters may fail from the sea,
    But not from thy fountains of love:
Oh, teach us Thy will to obey,
    And sing with one heart and accord,
"He gave and he taketh away,
    And praised be the name of the Lord!"

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Lady of England.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Au Revoir.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Day is Now Dawning.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Woman.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Funeral Hymn

Dust unto dust,
To this all must;
The tenant hath resign'd
The faded form To waste and worm
Corruption claims her kind.

Through paths unknown
Thy soul hath flown,
To seek the realms of woe,
Where fiery pain
Shall purge the stain
Of actions done below.

In that sad place,
By Mary's grace,
Brief may thy dwelling be
Till prayers and alms,
And holy psalms,
Shall set the captive free.

Walter Scott

Lines On the Burial of Mrs. Mary L. Ward, at Dale Cemetery, Sing-Sing, May 3, 1853.

The knell was tolled--the requiem sung,
    The solemn burial-service read;
And tributes from the heart and tongue
    Were rendered to the dead.

The dead?--Religion answers, "No!
    She is not dead--She can not die!
A mortal left this vale of wo!--
    An angel lives on high!"

The earth upon her coffin-lid
    Sounded a hollow, harsh adieu!
The mound arose, and she was hid
    For ever from the view!

For ever?--Drearily the thought
    Passed, like an ice-bolt, through the brain;
When Faith the recollection brought
    That we shall meet again.

The mourners wound their silent way
    Adown the mountain's gentle slope,
Which, basking in the smile of May,
    Looked cheerfully as hope.

As hope?--What hope?--Tha...

George Pope Morris

Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XXXI - Funeral Service

From the Baptismal hour, thro' weal and woe,
The Church extends her care to thought and deed;
Nor quits the Body when the Soul is freed,
The mortal weight cast off to be laid low.
Blest Rite for him who hears in faith, "I know
That my Redeemer liveth," hears each word
That follows, striking on some kindred chord
Deep in the thankful heart; yet tears will flow.
Man is as grass that springeth up at morn,
Grows green, and is cut down and withereth
Ere nightfall, truth that well may claim a sigh,
Its natural echo; but hope comes reborn
At Jesu's bidding. We rejoice, "O Death,
Where is thy Sting? O Grave, where is thy Victory?"

William Wordsworth

On The Death Of Edward Payson, D.D.

A servant of the living God is dead!
His errand hath been well and early done,
And early hath he gone to his reward.
He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep
Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest.

Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone
To Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst,
Nor hunger, but forever in the eye,
Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look,
Unchided, and untempted, and unstained.
Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone
To sit down with the prophets by the clear
And crystal waters; he hath gone to list
Isaiah's harp and David's, and to walk
With Enoch, and Elijah, and the host
Of the just men made perfect. He shall bow
At Gabriel's Hallelujah, and unfold
The scroll of the Apocalypse with John,
And talk of Christ with M...

Nathaniel Parker Willis

Not Dead, but Sleeping.

[To the memory of Edwin B. Foster, a member of the Howards, who nobly sacrificed his own life for others, and in remembrance of those unknown to fame or friends who have silently followed in the steps of our Saviour.]



The shadow of death is around us all,
    And life is a sorrowful thing;
For the winds sweep by with a mournful sigh,
    And sad are the tidings they bring.

He is dead--and the strong, brave life that he gave
    Seemed offered to God in vain;
Yet he died, Christ-like, in a labor of love,
    'Mid sorrow and death and pain.

And why should we sorrow--the crown is his
    And the glory of life is won;
Though he died when his labor was just begun,
    Yet the work of his life is done.

The beautiful South is a land of death,

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

Address To The Scholars Of The Village School

I come, ye little noisy Crew,
Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.
I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand:, it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead.
By night or day blow foul or fair,
Ne'er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair,
Or stand between his knees again.
Here did he sit confined for hours;
But he could see the woods and plains,
Could hear the wind and mark the showers
Come streaming down the streaming panes.
Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound
He rests a prisoner of the ground....

William Wordsworth