On the Death of a Friend

Oh, stay thy tears! for they are blest
Whose days are past, whose toil is done;
Here midnight care disturbs our rest,
Here sorrow dims the noon-day sun.
For laboring Virtue's anxious toil,
For patient Sorrow's stifled sigh,
For faith that marks the conqueror's spoil,
Heaven grants the recompense, — to die.
How blest are they whose transient years
Pass like an evening meteor's light;
Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears;
Whose course is short, unclouded, bright!
How cheerless were our lengthened way,
Did Heaven's own light not break the gloom,
Stream downward from eternal day,
And cast a glory round the tomb!
Then stay thy tears: the blest above
Have hailed a spirit's heavenly birth,
Sung a new song of joy and love,
And why should anguish reign on earth?