il, beam of the blessed! my heart Has drunk deep of thy magical power,

d each thought and each feeling seems bathed

In the light of this exquisite hour !

eet ray, I have proved thee so fair

In this dark world of mourning and sin,

y I hail thee more bright in that pure region, where Nor sorrow nor death enter in.

Like Lethe's lulling wave;
But fond affection's moaning wail

Breaks from us like the autumn gale.

Grief cannot win them back;

And yet with frequent tear,

We question of their hidden lot,
And list with throbbing ear,

For some low answer that may roll

Through the hushed temple of the soul.

We love them-love them yet!
But is our love returned?

Is memory's hearth now cold and dark
Where once the heart-fire burned?
Nor do the labourers now gone home,
Look for the weary ones to come?

We wrong them by the thought:-
Affections cannot die ;-

Man is still man where'er he goes,
And oh! how strong the tie
Which links us, as with fetters fast,
Unto the future and the past!

Death would be dark indeed,

If, with this mortal shroud,
We threw off all the sympathies
That in our being crowd,
And entered on the spirit-land,
A stranger, mid a stranger-band.

Than thus to meet and mingle thought,

Then from the immortal breast

Shut out the memory of the past,

Like day-beams from a forest vast.

Oh! no; it cannot be!

Ye! the long-lost of years!

Mid all the changes of this life,
Its thousand joys and fears,

We love to think that round ye move,
Making an atmosphere of love.

Ye are not dead to us;

But as bright stars unseen,

We hold that ye are ever near,

Though death intrudes between,

Like some thin cloud, that veils from sight The countless spangles of the night.

Your influence is still felt

In many a varied hour;

The dewy morn brings thoughts of you;
Ye give the twilight power;

And when the Sabbath sunshine rests

On your white tombs, ye fill our breasts.

No apathy hath struck

Its ice-bolt through our hearts;

Yours are among our household names;

Your memory ne'er departs;

And far, far sweetest are the flowers

Ye planted in our favoured bowers.