TO A CLERGYMAN, ON THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.
Where contemplation finds her sacred spring,
Where heavenly music makes the arches ring,
Where virtue reigns unsullied and divine,
Where wisdom throned and all the graces shine,
There sits thy spouse amidst the radiant throng,
While praise eternal warbles on her tongue;
There choirs angelic shout her welcome round,
With perfect bliss and peerless glory crowned.
While thy dear mate, no more to flesh confined,
Exults, a blest, an heaven-ascended mind,
Say, in thy breast shall floods of sorrow rise?
Say, shall its torrents overwhelm thine eyes?
Amid the seats of heaven a place is free,
And angels open their bright ranks for thee;
For thee they wait, and with expectant eye
Thy spouse leans downward from the empyreal sky.
"Oh come away, her longing spirit cries,
"And share with me the raptures of the skies.
"Our bliss divine to mortals is unknown;
"Immortal life and glory are our own.
"There, too, may the dear pledges of our love
"Arrive, and taste with us the joys above;
"Attune the harp to more than mortal lays,
"And join with us the tribute of our praise
"To him who died stern justice to atone,
"And make eternal glory all our own.
"He in his death slew ours, and, as he rose,
"He crushed the dire dominion of our foes;
