These may be phantasies—and this alone,
Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure;
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own,
Rest, in thy God immortally secure!
Enough for tranquil faith; released from all
The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thy brow,
No cloud to dim, no fetter to inthral,
Haply thine eye is on thy people now;
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed,
Tho' vainly sweet as flowers, grief's tribute to the dead.
But if th' ascending, disembodied mind,
Borne, on the wings of Morning, to the skies,
May cast one glance of tenderness behind,
On scenes, once hallow'd by its mortal ties,
How much hast thou to gaze on! all that lay
By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal'd,
The might, the majesty, the proud array
Of England's march o'er many a noble field,
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light,
Shine like some glorious land, view'd from an Alpine height.
