Requiem Third

The waves lie smooth when storms have fled, Beneath St Abb’s high rocky head; The green-capp’d islands of the deep Are lovely when the breezes sleep, Viewless upon their beds of balm; But, ah! this is a treacherous calm! For here the dove no rest can find While storms are lingering in the wind.

The fairest scenes of earth’s dull round Trail their dark shadows on the ground; The thorny rose—the honied sting— The winter’s cold—the blight of spring:— While Love’s chill frown, and Hope’s deceit, And Friendship changing oft to hate, Prove that the dove no rest can find Where man to man still proves unkind.

Beyond yon bright cerulean skies Elysium’s land of promise lies: Her sun no clouds are ever shading; Her fruits and flowers are never fading; Her hearts are pure as those that bear them, The blight of sin cannot come near them: Oh! there the dove its rest may find, And taste that heaven at least is kind.