Why, then, thy flowing sable stoles, Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles, Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds, And plumes of black, that, as they tread, Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of the dead?
Nor can the parted body know, Nor wants the soul these forms of woe: As men who long in prison dwell, With lamps that glimmer round the cell, 80 Whene'er their suffering years are run, Spring forth to greet the glittering sun: Such joy, though far transcending sense, Have pious souls at parting hence. On earth, and in the body placed, A few, and evil years, they waste: But when their chains are cast aside, See the glad scene unfolding wide, Clap the glad wing and tower away, And mingle with the blaze of day!' 90
Lovely, lasting peace of mind! Sweet delight of human kind! Heavenly born, and bred on high, To crown the favourites of the sky With more of happiness below, Than victors in a triumph know! Whither, oh! whither art thou fled, To lay thy meek, contented head? What happy region dost thou please To make the seat of calm and ease? 10
Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. Increasing Avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrined. The bold adventurer ploughs his way, Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart which grief assails, Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 20 Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks (as I have vainly done) Amusing thought; but learns to know That Solitude's the nurse of Woe. No real happiness is found In trailing purple o'er the ground; Or in a soul exalted high, To range the circuit of the sky, Converse with stars above, and know All Nature in its forms below; 30 The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, And doubts at last for knowledge rise.
Lovely, lasting peace appear! This world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden bless'd, And Man contains it in his breast.
'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wishes to the wood, And, lost in thought, no more perceived The branches whisper as they waved: 40 It seem'd as all the quiet place Confess'd the presence of the Grace, When thus she spoke:--'Go, rule thy will; Bid thy wild passions all be still; Know God--and bring thy heart to know The joys which from Religion flow: Then every Grace shall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest.'