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And pure affections like a little child,
Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friends
Beloved; then sweetest if, as Duty prompts,
With earthly care we in their breasts have sown
The seeds of Truth and Virtue, holy flowers
Whose odour reacheth Heaven.
When my sick Heart,
(Sick[1] with hope long delayed, than, which no care
Presses the crush'd heart heavier;) from itself
Seeks the best comfort, often have I deemed
That thou didst witness every inmost thought
Seward! my dear dead friend! for not in vain,
Oh early summon'd in thy heavenly course!
Was thy brief sojourn here: me didst thou leave
Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friends
Beloved; then sweetest if, as Duty prompts,
With earthly care we in their breasts have sown
The seeds of Truth and Virtue, holy flowers
Whose odour reacheth Heaven.
When my sick Heart,
(Sick[1] with hope long delayed, than, which no care
Presses the crush'd heart heavier;) from itself
Seeks the best comfort, often have I deemed
That thou didst witness every inmost thought
Seward! my dear dead friend! for not in vain,
Oh early summon'd in thy heavenly course!
Was thy brief sojourn here: me didst thou leave
