Epitaph
High peace to the soul of the dead,
From the dream of the world she has gone!
On the stars in her glory to tread,
To be bright in the blaze of the throne.
In youth she was lovely; and Time,
When her rose with the cypress he twined,
Left her heart all the warmth of its prime,
Left her eye all the light of her mind.
The summons came forth, — and she died!
Yet her parting was gentle, for those
Whom she loved, mingled tears at her side —
Her death was the mourner's repose.
Our weakness may weep o'er her bier,
But her spirit has gone on the wing
To triumph for agony here,
To rejoice in the joy of its King.
From the dream of the world she has gone!
On the stars in her glory to tread,
To be bright in the blaze of the throne.
In youth she was lovely; and Time,
When her rose with the cypress he twined,
Left her heart all the warmth of its prime,
Left her eye all the light of her mind.
The summons came forth, — and she died!
Yet her parting was gentle, for those
Whom she loved, mingled tears at her side —
Her death was the mourner's repose.
Our weakness may weep o'er her bier,
But her spirit has gone on the wing
To triumph for agony here,
To rejoice in the joy of its King.
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