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117

For Faith, delighted, views that scene,
Of fadeless glory and of grace;
Forgets the years that intervene,
And bids us see them, 'face to face.'

What though a few brief ills of life,
A little pathway marked with tears,
Some struggles of the Christian strife,
Await us in those future years,

Soon, soon they pass; and even now,
Those angel forms may guard our way,
Weave the blest chaplet for our brow,
And guide our footsteps, lest they stray.

In every thought to heaven allied,
In every virtuous deed and aim,
Are our departed at our side,
Whose memory fans the sacred flame.

And is this death? first-born to God,
To trace that pure, celestial sphere;
And rise in faith and hope, unawed,
To joys we scarce can vision here?

O early blest! how vain our sighs,
Our fond impetuous tears how vain!
To heaven we raise our weeping eyes,
Our loss is their eternal gain!