7th April 1844.
WHEN from its prison-house of clay
The spirit is unbound,
When one we love is borne away
To the lone narrow mound:
We feel as if the charm were gone
That renders life so dear,
And as a darkening cloud were thrown
O'er all our prospects here.
And when he died, we mourned for him
As only they could mourn
Who felt as if a precious limb
Were from the body torn.
Gentle and kind, and always true,
Revered wherever known;
No guile his bosom ever knew,
'Twas friendship's sacred throne.
From painful days, without relief,
Death brought at last release;
The change that gave to us but grief
To him was lasting peace.
We bore him to his hill-side grave,
To sleep, but not alone;
To kindred dust his dust we gave,
To mingle with his own.
To teach us that our home is not
Here, where we seek to live,
But that we have a happier lot
Than aught this world can give,
Death comes,—and when right understood
His lesson sure is blest.—
Thus one by one, the loved, the good,
Are gathered to their rest!