An Elegy of St. Prudentius [pp. 761-763]

An Elegy.
Oh! end these pangs with murmurs rife,
0 mothers! cease your tears, your woe;
Weep not for your dead children so,
Death the renewal is of life.
The dead, dry seed lies hid from view,
To burst forth to new glorious bloom;
The former beauty to resume,
The ancient harvest to renew.
O earth! in thy soft bosom keep,
And quicken with new warmth this clay,
This sacred frame to rest we lay,
It smiles in thy embrace to sleep.
'Twas once the immortal spirit's cell,
That breath breathed from the lips divine;
Here was the living wisdom's shrine,
Here deigned the Christ supreme to dwell.
Guard it beneath thy faithful sod,
For He, one day, will re-demand
From thee this labor of his hand,
This breathing likeness of its God.
Oh! for the appointed hour to rend
The grave! the hope God gives is sure:
Safe, beauteous, through these gates obscure
What now descendeth shall ascend.
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Yes, though this frame divinely planned
Be wasted by decay and rust,
And naught left save a little dust,
The filling of the smallest hand:
Though these strong sinews ashes be
On wandering breezes wafted wide,
Inviolate ever shall abide
The mortal's immortality.
C. E. B.