The day was dark and dreary, when we placed thee in the tomb,
And our hearts with grief were weary, amid the tempest's gloom,
And we thought the ray of gladness, the light and sunny beam,
Should o'er thy open sepulchre, with cheering radiance stream,
For thou, in Spring's first blossom had meekly passed away,
And closed in beauty on the earth, thy brief, thy mortal day,
But while the snow was falling upon thy coffin'd breast,
Our hearts grew warm, recalling thy better place of rest.
No winter now is thine above, in yonder world of joy,
Where sunshine beams around thee, and bliss without alloy;
Thine is a year of fadeless flowers, a year of endless spring,
And fragrance, not of earth, those flowers around thy pathway fling:
Ours, ours it is to have a storm of care, and pain, and wo,
Which ransomed spirits in the sky, can never, never know.
Then weep not for the sleeper, who so early passed away,
While beautiful the prospect, and when cloudless was the ray,
But weep for those who linger, in a bitter vale of tears,
While fate's mysterious finger portrays not coming years;
But for the dear departed, the beautiful, the young,
The good, the noble-hearted, oh, be no requiem sung.