Song

He whom misery, dark and dreary,
Robs of all his spirit’s strength;
Hopeless--but that wasted, weary,
Nature shall repose at length:
Not a joy to sparkle o’er him,
Not a ray of promised light;
Till the deep grave yawns before him,
Till his eye is closed in night.

Such am I;--time’s changes borrow
All their interest from thee:
Life is but a midnight sorrow,
Thou, life’s sun-shine, veiled from me.
But those hopes, with angels seated,
Life and death can ne’er subdue;
And the heart to thee related,
Needs must be immortal too.

Can that spirit ever perish,
Which divine emotions fill?
Thee on earth I loved to cherish,
Thee in heaven must cherish still;
Like a shadow to thee clinging,
Ever following--ever nigh;
Up to thee each look is springing,
Every word, and thought, and sigh.

Up to thee, my saint, my lover!
Up to thee my soul is led:
Spirit, wilt thou deign to hover
O’er my green and grassy bed?
Wilt thou from thy throne descending,
Catch thy fond one’s dying breath?
Wilt thou, near his tomb attending,
Consecrate the dreams of death?