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Dust turns to dust, with ashes, ashes blend,
But upward, upward let the soul ascend;
To God who gave it, let the spirit go,
While the frail form returns to earth below.
A few may sigh upon the grave's cold brink,
A few salt tears the broken soil may drink,
A few sad hearts in agony may bleed,
And pay that tribute, which they soon shall need.
While these frail honours wait the mould'ring dust,
Say, smiles the spirit with the kindred just?
Shine its pure garments in the white rob'd train?
Or sound its groans amid the realms of pain?
Ah, who can tell? The cause is God's alone,
Hereafter thou shalt see, and bless that dark unknown.
PARTING.
FEW friends have we on earth, and when they part,
The nerve unwinds whose tension tears the heart;
And the wan brow all blanch'd with sorrow, turns:
Cold, sunk, and pallid as the clay it mourns.
