HEAVEN BRIGHTER THAN EARTH.
129
There is no farewell sigh
Throughout that blessed clime,
No mourning voice, nor severed tie,
Nor change of hoary time.
Why plant the cypress near
The pillow of the just?
Why dew with murmuring tear
Their calm and holy dust?
Rear there the rose's pride,
Bid the young myrtle bloom,
Fit emblems of their joys who bide
Beyond the insatiate tomb.
'Mid that celestial place
Our soaring thoughts would glow,
Even while we run this pilgrim-race
Of weariness and woe;
For who would shrink from death
With sharp and icy hand,
Or heed the pangs of shortening breath,
To win that glorious land?
