Mourn not, dear friends, that he is dead to whom
Your hearts were bound by nature's holiest tie;
No care can reach him in the silent tomb,
And he was full of years and ripe to die.—
Cold comfort to your bleeding hearts, I know;
But time shall bring relief, and ye shall cease
To shed your tears of unavailing woe,
Nor even sigh to think of his release.
Blessed are they that sink to earth when age
Hath brought the misty eye and furrowed brow;
Who end at last their peaceful pilgrimage
Beloved for kind, good deeds as he is now;
And round their names, despite the world's harsh strife,
Leaving the lustre of a well-spent life.