The Life of the Dead

When over us the cross its shadow throws,
Our frames enshrouded in the mould of night,
Thou wilt reflower in the lily white,
And from my flesh be born the ensanguined rose.

And Death divine thy verse in music knows,
With silence and oblivion to his flight,
Will bear us, cradled in serene delight,
Through charmed ways that strange new stars disclose.

And mounting to the Sun our spirits twain,
Absorbed and melted in his depths, will gain
The tranquil raptures of unceasing fire;

While friend and poet, by Fame's pure chrism blest,
Will find eternity of life where rest
The immortal Shades made kindred by the Lyre.