University of Virginia Library

Life's anthem she had just begun
To sing, when she was called to die;
And now dost sing beyond the sun
With Angels in the heavens on high.
For, she was beautiful as pure,
And seemed to live on earth secure
From every harm, when Death's cold frost
Lay on the rosebud of her heart,
And tore its tender leaves apart—
The very heart my soul loved most!
The Lydian mode of her soft voice
Did make my very heart rejoice;
For she did ever sing to me
A song of joy incessantly—
Clear as the wild sweet notes, unheard
By me before, of some rare bird
From Eden-isles beyond the sea.

Winnowed upon thy silent breast,
Death-palsied, thy soft fingers lie,
While, underneath, thy heart doth rest,
Colder than cold, all silently!
Yes! thy pale limbs are cold in death!
As silent as the snow-white shroud
Which wraps thy tender form beneath,
Like some lone, solitary cloud
The infant, pale New Moon
Just from the old one born—
For, thou wert taken sick at noon,
And died before the next day morn!

Alas! thou wilt awake no more!
A death-frost is upon thy brow!
And on thy heart's deep, silent core,
A cold, damp dew is settling now!
But thou dost seem to sweetly sleep,
And calmly slumber, free from pain—
Not knowing I am doomed to weep,
Never, on earth, to smile again!
And though thy saintly form is hid
Beneath thy screwed-down coffin-lid;
Yet, I can see thee as thou wert—
The same dear creature to my heart!
Thou hast the same cerulean eyes
Of my first-born, now in the skies—
The same sweet lips of rosy hue,
Whereon thy breath hung like the dew
On rosebuds when they first dispart,
Disclosing thus their inmost heart,
Embalmed in fragrance—such as thine
Gave out to me in love divine
Embalmed in speech—such as was given
The Angel Israfel in Heaven.

Oh, God! how hard it was to part
From one who was so dear to me!
It was like taking out my heart—
The very heart that bleeds for thee!

The raptures of divinest love
I felt for thee, my snow-white Dove!
When thou wert from that World of Bliss
Sent down to make a Heaven of this,
Which ever seemed, while thou wert here,
Transformed into some other sphere—
Some happier world, where all is bright,
As if some Angel, full of light,
Had come down from the heavens above,
And changed it into one of love.

Thy moon-like beauty shall illume
The dark night of the silent tomb—
(Thus lying in that grave of thine,
As she does in the heavens, supine)—
And with the day of thy sweet light
Dissolve away the grave's dark night,
And make it brighter than the morn,
My Angel-child! when thou wert born—
When thou didst first become to me
The Morning-star of life's sweet day—
As bright as that which thou dost see,
In Heaven above—now far away!

The golden locks of thy soft hair
Lay floating on thy forehead fair,
In silken ringlets, on the day
When thou wert called from earth away—
From gladdening me with thy blue eyes—
To join thy SISTERS in the skies!

Thy spirit's soul-delighting face
Was smothered in the soft embrace
Of Angels, when they, from the skies,
Leant down with their sweet melodies,
In rapturous joy, to hail thee theirs,
And, by the keen light of the stars,
Beheld thee, like a snow-white Dove,
Ascending through the heavens above,
And caught thee, frantic with delight,
And bore thee, singing, out of sight,
And entered that Divine Abode,
To dwell for evermore with God.
For, as within its silken tomb,
The silk-worm enters to become
A full-grown chrysalis, in form
As different from the parent worm
As is the silk which it has spun
From the green leaf it feeds upon;
So does the soul cast off its form—
Even as the chrysalis the worm—
And rise up from its mortal night,
A spiritual body, clothed in light,
As different from its body here,
As Heaven is from this sinful sphere.
Then think not, Mortal! it is strange
That Man must undergo this change;
For who would ever think, from form,
A BUTTERFLY had been a worm?
And who would ever think to see
A worm, as green as green can be,
Become, soon after spinning silk,
A BUTTERFLY as white as milk?
If green worms turn to BUTTERFLIES,
When from their silken tombs they rise,
Why may not Men to Angels turn,
When they their bodies thus shall spurn—
Leaving them, as the worm its skin,
To rot the cold, dark grave within?
Nothing can be more strange to me,
Than such a change, so suddenly!
Therefore, I doubt not that this form
Contains within it, as a worm
The BUTTERFLY, another bright
And glorious body, full of light—
Undying in its nature—pure—
Here in this fleshly house secure—
Which, when this mortal body dies,
Will, on its own bright wings, arise,
As doth the BUTTERFLY, when free
From its frail tenement, to be
A child of dalliance, as it is,
Amid those FIELDS OF ENDLESS BLISS,
Where shines above thy sportive play
The sunlight of immortal day.

I doubt not, then, that we shall be
United in that WORLD OF BLISS,
Where thou shalt be the same to me
As thou hast ever been in this.

I sometimes see thee, in my dreams,
Beside those clear Elysian streams
Which flow out of the crystal fountains
Between the holy sapphire mountains
Of God's Eternity, whereon
Is built His Everlasting Throne.
Thou wast, in this dark world below,
The shadow of what thou art now,
In that high world of endless peace,
Whose songs of joy shall never cease.
As thou canst not return to me,
I know that I must go to thee!
For Death is but the gate from this
Dark world into immortal bliss,
Through which my soul must shortly go,
Thy pure delights in Heaven to know.
And though my grief is more than vain,
Yet, I shall never cease to grieve!
Because, no more while I shall live,
Will I behold thy face again!
No more while I have life or breath—
No more till I shall turn to dust!
But I shall see thee after death,
And in the heavens above, I trust!

For thy pure body now at rest,
And not thy soul among the blest—
Although to me it was most dear—
Is this frail stone erected here.
For that which is in Heaven on high,
Is full of immortality,
And needs no token of the grief
Which thus alone can find relief.
For by thy grave I seem to be
Again in thy sweet company,
Which love for thee has made to me
The very best society.
And while I bend me here alone
Above this Monumental Stone,
Weeping away my heart for thee
In tears which flow continually—
(Praying that I may meet thee there,
In that HIGH WORLD, where Angels are)—
If thou, from that Celestial sphere,
Canst look upon my sorrowing here—
Even as the Moon upon the sea—
Let thy pure soul look down on me,
Untroubled in that World of Bliss,
While I am sorrowing here in this!
And pardon me that I now grieve
That thou on earth hast ceased to live!
That thy dear body here can be
No more in this dark world with me!
The thought of which doth make me bow
Before thy grave in sorrow now!
And, oh! forgive me for the sin
Of wishing thee on earth again—
Away from that pure peace which is
The guerdon of immortal bliss;
And know that it is love for thee
Which makes me weep so bitterly!
For that which is in Heaven above
Alone can estimate my love!
For, out of thy pure, sacred dust,
I build my monumental trust,
Which rises from thy grave to thee—
Full in the front of Deity!
For, as thy soul on joyous wing
Did upward from thy body spring—
Rejoicing in its Heavenward flight
To gain those FIELDS OF PURE DELIGHT,
Where flowers of love immortal grow,
And rivers of pure water flow—
So, rises from my soul to thee
The hopes of immortality!

When thou wert in this world with me,
Bright Angel of the Heavenly lands!
Thou wert not fed by mortal hands,
But by the Nymphs, who gave to thee
The bread of immortality—
Such as thy spirit now doth eat
In that high world of endless love,
While walking with thy snowy feet
Along the sapphire-paven street,
Before the jasper-walls above,
And list'ning to the music sweet
Of Angels in that heavenly Hymn
Sung by the lips of Cherubim
In Paradise, before the fall,
In glory bright, outshining all
In that great City of pure gold,
The Angels talked about of old.

Because of thine untimely fate,
Am I thus left disconsolate!
Because thou wilt return to be
No more in this dark world with me!
Must these salt tears of sorrow flow
Out of my heart forever more!
Forever more as they do now!
Out of my heart forever more!

Thou wert my snow-white Jessamine—
My little Angel-Eglantine!
My saintly Lily! who didst grow
Upon thy mother's arms of snow—
Of whom thou wert the image true—
Whose tears fell on thy leaves for dew—
All but those deep blue eyes of thine—
They were the miniatures of mine,
Thou Blossom of that heavenly Tree,
Whose boughs are barren now for thee!
The sweetest bud she ever bore!
Who art transplanted to the skies
To blossom there forever more
Amid the Flowers of Paradise.

Thou hast the same sweet name in Heaven
That unto thee on earth was given.
I once did think it should adorn
Thy little sister to be born;
But no, it shall not be—her name
Shall be like thine—but not the same.
For then, she may not have the eyes
Of my first-born now in the skies,
Whose tender limbs where white as snow—
As virgin as her soul is now—
Who came me in this world to bless
With such celestial loveliness,
That, in the light of her blue eyes,
I seemed to dwell in Paradise,
And know how bright the Angels were
In Heaven, by gazing upon her.
For she was gentle as the flowers
Which she had gathered from the bowers,
The day before she died, for me—
Her breath so full of fragrancy.
Much softer than the unweaned lamb
New-washed with crystal water,
Was thy pure body, now so calm,
My darling little daughter!
For thou dost sleep beneath the shade
Of four young Cedars, which now spread
Their branches over thee so green—
The lovel est Cedars ever seen—
Brought from the hills of Lebanon,
And planted here by me, dear One!
At every corner of thy tomb,
To speak of me in years to come—
To say to those who pass them by,
We are four mourners standing round
This holy, consecrated ground—
Four verdant Angels round the head
And feet of her who now is dead—
Whose soul is in the heavens on high—
With wings of evergreen outspread—
To emblem that which cannot die.
And though mine eyes shall see thy face
No more—around thy dwelling-place,
Shall flourish these four Trees of God
To ornament thy blest abode.

In every corner underneath,
To emblem thy more fragrant breath,
The white buds of the Jessamine
Now blossom round the Myrtle Vine,
Which spreads its evergreen above
To emblem mine eternal love—
From whose green, oval leaves, sweet thing!
Like bits of immortality
Cut from the azure heavens on high
By some great Sculptor-Angel, who
Had polished them his whole life through—
A little purple flower doth spring,
Whose tender leaves appear, from size,
As if made out of thy blue eyes—
Which sheds an Eden-like perfume
All April long upon thy tomb!

Until my death, or soon or late,
My heart shall be disconsolate!
Shall grieve for thee forever more!
Forever more still grieve for thee!
Till we shall meet on that sweet shore,
Where all our grieving shall be o'er—
In Heaven above eternally.

And till that hour, there shall be none
In Heaven to match my love—not one!
Not even the mightiest Angel there,
Shall his great love with mine compare!
It is as deep as deep can be—
It rises from this world to thee!
Full as the ocean is of water,
Is my fond heart for thee, sweet Daughter!
Sweet Daughter! is my heart for thee!
Full as the ever-brimful sea—
The ever-brimful sea—with love—
Is my fond heart for thine above!

And I did thank the God of Heaven
That He this recompense had given—
That He permitted her to speak,
Although she was so very weak!
For, I did once more hear her voice,
Which made my breaking heart rejoice!
Which but to hear on earth again—
To hear it as I heard it then—
Like Angels' whispers when they tell
The living where the dead may dwell—
I would give all that could be given
By man on earth this side of Heaven!
I would be willing, could this be,
To suffer pain eternally!
For I was overwhelmed with grief,
And could not give my child relief!
The very love I had for her,
When most I wished to minister
To her relief, did make me less
A minister in my distress!
And then, with more than mortal dread,
I laid my hand upon her head!
It was as clammy cold with sweat,
As roseleaves in the frost-dew wet!
I wiped away the death-cold dew—
Her once soft pearly nails were blue!
The cramp was in her hands and feet!
Her breath, that once was more than sweet—
Than Jessamines when first in bloom—
Smelt like the cold earth of the tomb!
For, oh! the agonizing pain
Had palsied her young tender brain,
Till were the pupils of her eyes
Dilated twice their natural size!
The pearly alæ of her nose,
Like frost-bit petals of the rose,
Were both contracted, cold and thin;
And her blue eyes had both sunk in!
And her soft, heart-enfolding breast
Kept panting with that heart's unrest!
For, as her feeble breath grew thick,
Her thread-like pulse became more quick!
And then her pale, cold lips I kist,
And laid my hand upon her wrist!
Her pulse had almost ceased to beat!
And then I felt her icy feet!
Oh, God! to think of that child now,
Doth wring the life-drops from my brow!
I then grew speechless with despair,
And offered up to God one prayer—
One voiceless prayer—in my deep grief;
But He would give me no relief!
Then, in the depths of my distress—
The utmost of my bitterness—
My infinite of agony—
I prayed to Him to let me die!

Oh! if thy ears be to Despair
Forever open, hear my prayer!
If Thou canst pity my distress,
Scorn not my soul in bitterness!
When but one whisper of thy breath
Can save her from the pangs of death!
When but one whisper of thy voice
Can make her father's heart rejoice!

And then I bowed to earth my head!
(Oh! how my heart within me bled!)
And, with the mightiness of pain,
I cried out from my soul again,
My child is dead! my child is dead!
And strewed my garments in the dust—
Still lifting up to Him my trust—
Saying, Thou knowest a father's love!
The Angels Father Thee above!
If Thou dost love thy children's voice,
Speak! that my child may live again!
Let me not ask of Thee in vain!
And make her father's heart rejoice!
Let her not go into the grave!
But save her for me, Father! save!
Though she be now in pure delight,
Let her return to me to-night!
For Heaven itself can never be
What that dear child has been to me!
For, since the morning of her birth,
Has she not been my Heaven on earth?
Which, since her death, has been to me
The worst of hells continually!
Oh! raise her up as she was then,
And let her make it Heaven again!

And then I knelt down by my child,
(For now my sorrow had grown wild,)
Where, like the young Moon in some cloud,
Which her own beauty has made bright—
She lay all wrapped up in her shroud,
As bright to me as she to night!
And then, as do the far-off skies,
Beyond some cloud of pearly white,
Beneath her half-closed lids, her eyes
Appeared to me all blue and bright—
For Death had not eclipsed their light!
Then, every string in my poor heart
By grief's strong hands were torn apart!
And then my pallid lips grew mute,
As when the strings of some sweet lute
By ruffian-hands are rent in twain—
Never, on earth, to sound again!

As Mary of her brother cried—
Lord! hadst thou been there by her side,
My little Florence had not died!

And then the people said to me,
Why all this waste of agony?
What is the use of all this grief?
It will not give your heart relief!
And then, to reconcile my mind,
They said, You are of men most blind!
This selfish sorrow will not see
That God is dealing righteously!
You act as though you had no sense,
Thus to arraign His providence!
For Christ himself was born to die—
He suffered mortal agony!
For, when the mountain-rock was riven,
The Sun then hid his face in heaven,
As if he could not bear to see
His Maker suffering agony!
And when the Temple's vail was rent,
Thick darkness filled the firmament!
And there were Angels heard above,
Complaining of the deathless love
That caused the God of Heaven to die,
While suffering so much agony!

And then I made them this reply:
But, oh! His grief was not like mine,
For mine is mortal—His, divine!
Then, how superior is my pain,
To know His life was all His own—
That He had power to lay it down,
And then to take it up again!
But I have none in my distress—
My more than mortal bitterness!
Not even the power, which brings relief,
To suffer my exceeding grief!
For bearing suffering sometimes is
The way to conquer our distress.
This power He had to such extent,
He drew from it His whole content.
For, when He prayed the cup might pass,
He bowed His head to Death, alas!
And when He seemed to suffer most,
With joy divine—“gave up the ghost!”

I thought that, when my mother died,
Nothing in all this world beside
Could ever give me so much pain,
Or grieve my broken heart again!
For, when the letter came to me,
Which told that she had ceased to be,
The world seemed swallowed up in night—
All darkened for the want of light!
For, when I found that she was dead,
The blood all rushed into my heal,
And drowned the organs of my mind,
Till I, at length, became stone-blind!
Then I began on God to call,
And ask if I had lost my all!
If that dear being who had given
Me joy on earth—had gone to Heaven!
And thus, for four long, trying years,
I wept away my heart to tears,
Wrung by the bitterest agony—
Praying to God that I might die!

But this deep grief was pure delight,
Compared with that I felt the night
That my child died! for, when she died,
The world died with her! all beside!
Yes! when that precious being left,
I was of Heaven on earth bereft!
She died! No—Death did not destroy
My child—he only killed my Joy!
The dearest Joy I had on earth—
Born on the morning of her birth!
For, when they did my child inter,
Joy went into the grave with her!
But, still in Heaven—in that high sphere—
She is my child as she was here;
Wherever her dear soul may be,
She is the same dear child to me!

For, as the milk-white lamb lies down
Beneath some shady tree at noon,
And on the myrtle green reposes,
In Sharon's Garden full of roses;
So, thou dost take thy peaceful rest
In that High World among the blest.

I put on sackloth on the day
When thou wert called from earth away!
My body then in nakedness
Was left to emblem my distress!
Oh! when shall I be clothed again,
In linen garments, free from stain,
To emblem my deliverance
From sorrow in its widest sense?
Never, until I go away,
Where she is gone, to endless Day!
Never, until there shall be given
Those garments of resplendent white
To image my divine delight—
Such as the Angels wear in Heaven.

Although my heart was bursting ope,
My sorrowing was not “without hope,”
As poor Quinctilian's was, when he
Mourned for his absent family—
When Death destroyed his little ones—
His darling wife—his precious sons!
For, in the madness of his grief,
He would not stoop to find relief;
But lost all relish for those things
That once gave joy in murmurings,
Which evermore grew more intense,
Till he accused even Providence,
And said, with grief-embittered tongue,
The God of Heaven had done him wrong!
But He had reaped where He had sown,
And taken nothing but His own.

If Thou art Mercy's Father, hear!
And turn to me Thy gracious ear!
This mode of goodness dwells in Thee,
To succor those in misery!
Thy mercy is the heavens above,
And Thou art called the “God of Love!”
Thine uncreated fulness gives
The soul the joy by which it lives!
Thine all-sustaining nature feeds
The soul with what it daily needs!
Thou art the bounteous pourer forth
Of all the good we have on earth!
The “Gracious One,” whose goodness is
The fountain of our hopes of bliss!
Forever flowing, full forever!
Forever flowing, failing never!
Forever emptying, like the sea—
Forever full eternally!
The “God of comfort” I would see—
The “Goel” who can ransom me!
The Bonah who can me restore,
And comfort me forever more!
Who, stooping from the heavens above,
Hast come to earth with thy deep love,
And turned affliction's bitter sting
To joy by thy kind ministering;
And all my many wants supplied—
Nothing my soul desired denied;
Who chasteneth, yet upbraideth not—
Look down upon my wretched lot!
And shed upon my soul the light
Of Thy sweet countenance to-night!
The Stars, with all their burning fires,
Th' adoring Angels with their choirs—
A chorus of inspired Saints—
With Heaven's divine inhabitants—
In that sublime Doxology—
That holy, holy, holy hymn
Sung by the lips of Seraphim—
Heard by Isaiah in th' abode
And Temple of the Living God—
Praise Thee forever more on high,
Thou God of immortality!
Shouting aloud Thy name to bless
For thine exceeding loveliness—
Thou, who art known in Heaven so well—
The Holy One of Israel!

But God refused to hear my prayer!
(And Death sat mocking my despair!)
And trod upon my utmost trust,
And trampled all my hopes to dust!
And laid my child into the grave,
When He had all the power to save!
The first that He to me had given,
Because He wanted her in Heaven!
And then I felt my heart was breaking,
And all alone for her dear sake!
And knew that Hope was me forsaking,
As one would his own soul forsake!
And then, as one half reconciled
To what he cannot help, I smiled,
And said to God—Now keep my child!

And now this sorrow for thy sake,
In which my heart doth seem to break,
And melt in tears out of mine eyes,
Is but my pleasure in disguise.
And what doth seem like grief or wo,
Is but my joy on earth to know—
(For such deep grief to joy is given)—
That my dear child is now in Heaven.
Thus, what doth seem to thee like pain,
Is knowing we shall meet again.
For all pure joy is but the same
As grief—they differ but in name.
For grief is joy above the height
Of that sad joy we call delight.
And thus, in grieving, we express
That our deep joy is in excess.
Thus, joy, for Love, becomes so deep,
It turns to grief, which makes us weep.
This grief, expressive of our love,
Is like that joy they feel above—
That holy joy which fills the sight
With tears of infinite delight;
That joy above which joy below
Doth ape by rising into wo.

The dying swan is said to sing
Away its soul in sorrowing;
But sweeter sings the nearer death—
Proving it false with latest breath.
The swan is said thus to lament,
When telling sweetest its content.
For that which feels the most relief,
Appears to be in deepest grief.
So full of pathos is the strain
That tells of joy, it seems like pain.
Then, what is sorrow, but the sense
Of one soul's joy when most intense?
So, what appears like grief to thee,
Is but the deepest joy to me.

Since that dear being, loved from birth,
Has vanished from the face of earth,
And soared into the heavens above,
And left me nothing here to love;
I love, to reconcile my mind,
The sorrow she has left behind;
And this becomes more dear to me
Than any thing on earth can be,
Because it is the only thing
That she has left me—sorrowing!
The only thing that I now have
To comfort me this side the grave!
The cherished relic she has given
To make me think of her in Heaven!
For that which makes me think of her,
Delight to me doth minister;
Though it be sorrow, pain, or grief,
Yet, it doth bring my heart relief.
Therefore, I cherish that which is
My portion left on earth below,
Let it be sorrow, pain or bliss—
Since joy to me is nought but wo,
And wo deep joy—which this shall be
Forever more—eternally!

And while I iive on earth below,
Beside thy grave to worship so,
It gives me joy almost as great,
And makes this more than wretched state,
(As if thou still wert living here)—
More pleasant than it doth appear.
For, while I live by part of thee,
I hope that other part to see,
When I shall die, in Heaven above,
Which makes me more thy body love.
For, thinking of that one in bliss,
Doth make me more attached to this
Since knowing that in Heaven above
Did once live here for me to love,
When both were one, which they must be
In Heaven above eternally.
Her body is on earth to me,
Like some bright star seen in the sea,
The brightest of the stars of even—
The image of that one in Heaven—
Which were not there for me to love,
But for the soul of it above;
For, when we see it there, we know
The one in Heaven doth make it so;
Thus, Heaven above dwells here below.
So with her body—here, it is
The image of her soul in bliss,
Which, but for that dear soul in Heaven,
Had never unto me been given.
And thus her form appears to me
Like that bright star seen in the sea,
Which, though it shows its image nigh,
Its soul is in the heavens on high.
And like that star, amid the storm,
Setting, though still forever bright,
Appeared her soul through her sick form,
Till it had vanished from my sight!
And then, in death, she seemed to be
Still living in this world with me.
Then, as the earth is wrapped in night,
Long after all the stars are gone—
So was my soul for her sweet light,
In this dark world—alone—alone!
Thus, like the sphere-tones of her voice,
Which made my breaking heart rejoice—
More plaintive than the tones of love,
Sung latest by the dying Dove,
When, on her death-revealing tongue,
The last bit of her heart, in song,
Is breathed away in one soft coo
That melts into the heavens like dew;
Or, that sad bird of Mexico,
Whose song is with such pathos rise,
The ravishing sweetness pains it so,
It sings but one time in its life,
And, dying, soars to Heaven on high
On wings of its own melody;
So, faded from my soul that day,
All in the flowery month of May—
One of those radiant Cherubim
Who sang to me that heavenly hymn!
And like the new-born Moon supine,
So died she in these arms of mine,
To rise, like her, the next day even,
More full of light again in Heaven!
For, when her precious life did cease,
Two star-crowned Ministers of Peace,
With music soft as was the love
That bore her up to Heaven above—
Attended her to that HIGH BOURNE
“From whence no traveler shall return.”
Then what is Death? What is the grave?
A friend to life—the home I crave!
Where Man shall lay his body down,
And rest in dreamless sleep alone!
For grief it is the softest bed—
A pillow for the aching head—
A Hospital for all our wo—
Our last Asylum here below!
The body there shall rest in peace,
No more to suffer from disease—
No more to suffer pain or strife,
Or any of the ills of life!
Then, what is Death, but our release
From this dark life to one of peace?
It is by Death that we are brought
Those MIGHTY ONES in Heaven to see—
Great Sages of immortal thought,
And kings of deathless melody!
Who made the world ring with the shout
Exultant of their songs about
The joys divine which they should see
In Heaven above eternally!
And how their-unshod feet should tread
The MANSIONS of the MIGHTY DEAD,
And there enjoy the company
Of Angels in that world of bliss,
And see the friends they loved in this.
For there the faithful here in heart
Shall reunite no more to part—
No more to bow to ruthless fate—
No more to be disconsolate;
No more to sorrow, weep, or sigh—
But more than all—no more to die!

But those who lie in lowly bed,
Call the departed—not the dead!
They are not dead who seem to be—
They only slumber peacefully—
Waiting the Resurrection Morn,
When they shall all be newly born—
Born of the grave where they now lie—
Born unto immortality.

The Martyr Stephen “fell asleep,”
And he for whom poor Mary wept,
(Whose sorrow made poor Martha weep—)
Laz'rus, her brother, only “slept!”

We know not, while we linger here,
Whether the soul be far or near;
Though, in our love for them, we say,
The dead cannot be far away.
And though our parting give us pain,
Yet, we shall meet in Heaven again;
Wherein our love, when we shall meet,
By absence, shall be made more sweet.
My Mother long hath trod the path
That leads to that Serene Abode,
Where I shall meet her after death,
Safe in the bosom of our God.

The seed, when sepulchered in earth,
At the appointed time comes forth,
And grows until it comes to bloom—
Feasting us with its rich perfume;
For therein it is doomed to lie,
Until its outer shell doth die,
That, dying, it may live beneath—
For life is but the birth of Death;
And, as the seed thus changed must be,
Before the plant Heaven's light can see,
That it may, at th' appointed hour,
Array itself in beauteous flower;
So shall Man's body from the clay,
Where it is planted to decay—
Rise at the Resurrection Day,
And put on immortality.