AS, bowed by sudden storms, the rose
Sinks on the garden's breast,
Down to the grave our brother goes,
In silence there to rest.
No more with us his tuneful voice
The hymn of praise shall swell;
No more his cheerful heart rejoice
When peals the Sabbath bell.
Yet, if, in yonder cloudless sphere,
Amid a sinless throng,
He utters in his Saviour's ear
The everlasting song,—
No more we'll mourn the absent friend,
But lift our earnest prayer,
And daily every effort bend
To rise and join him there.
||This work published before January 1, 1923 is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.