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115
THOU ART NOT GONE.
Thou art not gone, but ever nigh;
Death could not break love's holy tie!
Thy presence meets us everywhere,
But free from sorrow, pain, and care.
The air that formed thy voice—thy breath—
Moves round us now, unchilled by death;
Thou art not gone, sweet spirit! nay,
But fondly hovering on our way.
Death could not break love's holy tie!
Thy presence meets us everywhere,
But free from sorrow, pain, and care.
The air that formed thy voice—thy breath—
Moves round us now, unchilled by death;
Thou art not gone, sweet spirit! nay,
But fondly hovering on our way.
We see thee, when the morn's warm ray
Night's cool tear drinks from o'er thy clay;
When moonbeams sleep, while boughs that wave
Throw quivering shadows on thy grave.
Through weary day,—'mid nightly dreams,—
Thine angel eye before us beams;
But ah! thy wings,—thy wings unfurled
Bespeak thy home a spirit-world!
Night's cool tear drinks from o'er thy clay;
When moonbeams sleep, while boughs that wave
Throw quivering shadows on thy grave.
Through weary day,—'mid nightly dreams,—
Thine angel eye before us beams;
But ah! thy wings,—thy wings unfurled
Bespeak thy home a spirit-world!
And when we ask thy dwelling-place,
Soft, mantling cloud o'erveils thy face:
This mortal vision could not bear
The heavenly radiance kindling there!
Thou art not gone, sweet spirit! nay,
Though broke thy fragile shrine of clay;
Thou 'rt whispering us with thee to rise,
While poised thy pinions for the skies.
Soft, mantling cloud o'erveils thy face:
This mortal vision could not bear
The heavenly radiance kindling there!
Thou art not gone, sweet spirit! nay,
Though broke thy fragile shrine of clay;
Thou 'rt whispering us with thee to rise,
While poised thy pinions for the skies.
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