I.

Can the sigh be poured for the Early Dead,
On their pillows of dust reposing?
Should the tear of Pain, in that hour be shed,
When the earth o'er their slumber is closing?
Should the winds of heaven in Evening's hour
Bear the sighs of the laden bosom;
When the Young are borne from Affliction's power,
Like the Spring's unsullied blossom?
Ere the blight of crime on the spirit came —
Ere passion awakened its inward flame:
While the heart was pure, while the brow was fair,
Ere the records of Evil had gathered there?

II.

They have passed from the shadows that haunt us round,
From the clouds that enthral existence,
When we look at Youth in the backward ground,
And at Death in the forward distance!
No more will the sombre pall of Fate,
Like a mantle around them gather;
They have gone, ere Affection grew desolate,
Or Hope's garland began to wither:
And they sleep like stars in the upper air,
When the skies of evening are deep and fair;
There's a halo of peace where their ashes lie,
As the ambient night-winds are hurrying by.

III.

They are blest in death! — for no bitter care
Will the fevered brow be flushing:
They departed while Being was bright and fair,
While the fountains of Feeling were gushing;
Then let them sleep " in their lowly bed;"
Let Hope be amidst our sorrow;
There is peace in the Night of the Early Dead —
It will yield to a glorious morrow!
They will rise like buds from the glebe of spring,
When the young birds play on the changeful wing;
They faded ere sin could beguile the breast;
They will wake in the regions of Endless Rest!