Supposed to Be Written by One on Whom the Death of an Excellent Woman Has Forced the Conviction of a Future State (continued)

The bliss of Heaven, Maria, shall be thine!
Joy link'd to joy by amaranthine bond!
And a fair harp of many strings divine
Shall meet thy touch with unimagined sound!
Meek angel-hood shall dwell within thine eye,
Fed by the action of thy purer soul;
Thy brow shall beam with fairer dignity —
No more thy cheek shall blench with Care's control,
Nor yield its hues to changes of the heart,
That beats with plenitude of life and woe —
Taking all dyes that sorrow can impart,
Or ever-shifting circumstance bestow:
The prey of present pangs or after-smart,
For ever feeling pain or missing bliss below.