LINES TO THE MEMORY OF PATRICK GIVEN
WHO DIED AUGUST 17TH 1864
Again the stern tyrant who mocks at our sorrow
Has shrouded our joys with the garments of gloom;
Our summer has changed, winter’s pall we must borrow,
For the friend we loved dearly lies low in the tomb.
No more by the Maine you will find him reclining,
To hear its sweet sounds as it murmurs along;
No more in the dewy-eyed twilight, designing
To deck with fresh flowerets the garland of song.
No more he shall visit the haunts of the Muses,
Who, weeping, lament for their favourite son;
No more the steep pathway of glory he chooses
Stopp’d short in his race which had scarcely begun.
No more we shall see our young poet returning
From the field of his fame where he foremost was found
No more wreaths of triumph his forehead adorning,
Nor his brow with the laurels of victory crown’d.
Vanity! Vanity! Honour is vanity;
This world is a world of sin, sorrow, and care;
To trust it for happiness, oh, what insanity!
Be wise, sons of Genius, look forward, prepare.
Now darkness prevails, yet the dawn is returning;
For though cold and unconscious he sleeps in the grave,
He shall waken with joy on eternity’s morning,
For he trusted in Him who is mighty to save.
J. Fleming, Ballymena 23rd August 1864