Page:National Lyrics.pdf/87

All the soul forth flowing
    In that rich perfume,
All the proud life glowing
    In that radiant bloom,—

Have they no place but here, beneath th' o'ershadowing tomb?

Crown'st thou but the daughters
    Of our tearful race?
—Heaven's own purest waters
    Well might wear the trace

Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace.

Will that clime enfold thee
    With immortal air?
Shall we not behold thee
    Bright and deathless there?

In spirit-lustre cloth'd, transcendantly more fair?