Requiem Third, XXXVIII

Thus closed the quire their lyric strain, In sounds that oft were woke again; For still the requiem’s notes were sung, The echoes of the aisles still rung The chanted dirge—the fervent prayer For him who lay embalmed there.

Since then these shores have never seen So much funereal pomp and show, Save when the priests of holy mien, Wander’d o’er Soutra’s chilly brow, In fair Melrose’s shrine to place The relics of the great De Vaux, To sleep with many a nameless race Till Heaven’s own awful trumpets blow!