But she who used those sweets to tend,
And love their beauty,—where was she?—
Sighing, I sought that lonely place,
Where cypress shades the sleeping dust,
Where grieved affection oft may trace
The idols of its fondest trust:—
The cold dews bathed a narrow mound,
The tall, rank grass waved wide and free,
The sweeping gale return'd a sound,
And seem'd to echo—"where is she?"—
But answering to my wounded breast
Methought a hovering spirit said,
"Thou who dost break this holy rest
To seek the living mid the dead,
Thy Guide is risen!"—Deep silence fell!—
Awe struck my heart unknown before,—
No more shall impious grief rebel,
This murmuring lip presume no more.—
"Thy Guide is risen!"—'Tis well!—'Tis well!—
Her heart was in a higher sphere,
For harps of angels seem'd to swell
Congenial on her earthly ear;—
Her home was not where storms resound,
Where discord waves a blood-stain'd rod,
Where sorrow stalks his hourly round,—
Her home was heaven.—she rose to God.
