Poems (Hornblower)/The Departed
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
For works with similar titles, see The Departed.
THE DEPARTED.
The friends we love have passed away,
The forms so dear no more we see,
No more we meet the eyes' mild ray,
Or catch the smile of sympathy.
The forms so dear no more we see,
No more we meet the eyes' mild ray,
Or catch the smile of sympathy.
No, these are fled! hut ask thy heart,
Are no fond traces lingering there,
Memories we would not bid depart,
And hopes that bless the hour of prayer?
Are no fond traces lingering there,
Memories we would not bid depart,
And hopes that bless the hour of prayer?
[s not the dream of heaven more sweet,
Bright with the living forms of love?
Does not each trial that we meet
Raise our rapt spirits more above?
Bright with the living forms of love?
Does not each trial that we meet
Raise our rapt spirits more above?
Yes! Death, that pales our glowing cheek,
Tells of an angel's opening bliss;
Again we view the form we seek,
Bright with immortal happiness.
Tells of an angel's opening bliss;
Again we view the form we seek,
Bright with immortal happiness.
For Faith, delighted, views that scene,
Of fadeless glory and of grace;
Forgets the years that intervene,
And bids us see them, 'face to face.'
Of fadeless glory and of grace;
Forgets the years that intervene,
And bids us see them, 'face to face.'
What though a few brief ills of life,
A little pathway marked with tears,
Some struggles of the Christian strife,
Await us in those future years,
A little pathway marked with tears,
Some struggles of the Christian strife,
Await us in those future years,
Soon, soon they pass; and even now,
Those angel forms may guard our way,
Weave the blest chaplet for our brow,
And guide our footsteps, lest they stray.
Those angel forms may guard our way,
Weave the blest chaplet for our brow,
And guide our footsteps, lest they stray.
In every thought to heaven allied,
In every virtuous deed and aim,
Are our departed at our side,
Whose memory fans the sacred flame.
In every virtuous deed and aim,
Are our departed at our side,
Whose memory fans the sacred flame.
And is this death? first-born to God,
To trace that pure, celestial sphere;
And rise in faith and hope, unawed,
To joys we scarce can vision here?
To trace that pure, celestial sphere;
And rise in faith and hope, unawed,
To joys we scarce can vision here?
O early blest! how vain our sighs,
Our fond impetuous tears how vain!
To heaven we raise our weeping eyes,
Our loss is their eternal gain!
Our fond impetuous tears how vain!
To heaven we raise our weeping eyes,
Our loss is their eternal gain!