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; Breaks from us like the autumn gale. Grief cannot win them back; And yet with frequent tear, We question of their hidden lot, For some low answer that may roll Through the hushed temple of the soul. We love them-love them yet! Is memory's hearth now cold and dark We wrong them by the thought:- Man is still man where'er he goes, Death would be dark indeed, If, with this mortal shroud, 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, We love to think that round ye move, 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; 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. |