4572047Poems — To the DepartedMary Whitwell Hale
TO THE DEPARTED.
What is there that should terrify the sight,
In gazing on thy calm, untroubled sleep;
To shed around our hearts a cheerless blight,
Or cause the eye these burning tears to weep?

Nought is there written on that tranquil brow,
Or on that fast-closed lip, of earthly pain.
They speak earth's sharpest conflict over now;
Thy heart shall know nor care nor grief again.

Yet while we gaze upon thy sleeping dust,
And mark thy rest so peaceful and so sweet,
Our anxious fears are changed to holy trust;
Our chastened hearts with holy transport beat.

Thy body sleeps in death; but the pure heart,
Which shed o'er that loved form its living light,
That which alone can breathing grace impart,
Has winged beyond the spheres its blissful flight.

Then will we yield thee to the sheltering tomb,
And wait its rising on that glorious morn,
When, bursting forth in renovated bloom,
In realms of endless light it shall be born.