Another Dirge


Hushed be sighing, near the string,
O’er whose tremors deep we sing
The youngest Death, who hath no fears,
Blood, nor pang, nor any tears.
      Hushed be sighing!
Fair and young as Venus’ child,
Only paler, and most mild;
End of all that’s dear and young,
   Thee we mean, soft Drop of roses;
Hush of birds that sweetest sung,
   That beginn’st when music closes;
      The maiden’s Dying!

[Kelsall, 1851]