Classic Poem

Soft and sweet be thy deathly sleep
Bright and glad be thy heavenly waking
O do not dream that thou seest us weep
Feel not thou, that our hearts are breaking!

Ne'er oh ne'er mayst thou hear us sigh
Known to thee may our griefs be never
But if thou look'st from the starry sky
Think that thou seest us happy as ever.

And we, when we press the holy ground
That covers thy grave at the hour of even
Will fancy thy Spirit is hovering round
And smiling points to it's native heaven.

Full oft when the moon of night is near
And our wearied eye lids have sunk in slumber
We'll dream that thy golden lyre we hear
Softly touched to its sweetest number.

And oh! we'll deem when our bosoms thrill
With the pulse of joy or the pang of sorrow
Our good thou sharest — but not our ill
And Patience or bliss from the thought we'll borrow.

And at last, when the hour of death is near
Around our couch thy Spirit shall hover
To whisper Hope in our dying ear
And waft us to peace when life is over.