’Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest,
May hover round the virtuous man's repose;
And oft in visions animate his breast,
And scenes of bright beatitude disclose.
The ministers of Heaven with pure controul,
May bid his sorrow and emotion cease;
Inspire the pious fervour of his soul,
And whisper to his bosom hallow'd peace.
Ah! tender thought, that oft with sweet relief,
May charm the bosom of a weeping friend;
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief,
And pensive pleasure with devotion blend;
While oft he fancies music sweetly faint,
The airy lay of some departed saint.