DEATH OF A FRIEND.
It is not when the good obey
The summons of their God,
And meekly take the narrow couch
Beneath the burial sod,
That keenest anguish pours its wail,
Despairing o'er their rest,
For praise should mingle with the pang
That wrings the mourner's breast.
It is not when the saint departs,
Whose wealth was hid on high,
That bitterest tears of grief should gush
From sad bereavement's eye;
For in the consummation blest
Of every wish and prayer,
He to his Father's courts ascends,
And finds a mansion there.
But yet, oh friend, revered and blest,
Who from our arms this day
Hast risen to gain thy perfect rest
In realms of cloudless day,
Though faith reveals thee to our view
From every sorrow free,
How shall we check the bursting tear
That wildly flows for thee?