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| OFT may the spirits of the dead descend | |
| To watch the silent slumbers of a friend; | |
| To hover round his evening-walk unseen, | |
| And hold sweet converse on the dusky green; | |
| To hail the spot where first their friendship grew, | 5 |
| And heaven and nature opened to their view! | |
| Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees | |
| A smiling circle emulous to please; | |
| There may these gentle guests delight to dwell, | |
| And bless the scene they loved in life so well! | 10 |
| Oh thou! with whom my heart was wont to share | |
| From Reason’s dawn each pleasure and each care; | |
| With whom, alas! I fondly hoped to know | |
| The humble walks of happiness below; | |
| If thy blest nature now unites above | 15 |
| An angel’s pity with a brother’s love, | |
| Still o’er my life preserve thy mild controul, | |
| Correct my views, and elevate my soul; | |
| Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, | |
| Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned; | 20 |
| Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, | |
| Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise, | |
| To meet the changes Time and Chance present | |
| With modest dignity and calm content. | |
| When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest, | 25 |
| Thy meek submission to thy God expressed, | |
| When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, | |
| A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed, | |
| What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, | |
| Its hope in death, its triumph o’er the grave? | 30 |
| The sweet Remembrance of unblemished youth, | |
| The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth! | |
| Hail, MEMORY, hail! in thy exhaustless mine | |
| From age to age unnumbered treasures shine! | |
| Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, | 35 |
| And Place and Time are subject to thy sway! | |
| Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone; | |
| The only pleasures we can call our own. | |
| Lighter than air, Hope’s summer-visions die, | |
| If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; | 40 |
| If but a beam of sober Reason play, | |
| Lo, Fancy’s fairy frost-work melts away! | |
| But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, | |
| Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? | |
| These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, | 45 |
| Pour round her path a stream of living light, | |
| And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest | |
| Where Virtue triumphs and her sons are blest! | |
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