"See! in what peace a Christian can die."
-- Addison.

Can joy exist, where anguish reigns?
Sweet peace, 'mid nature's fiercest pains?
A triumph-strain, when every tie
Is rent in mortal agony?

Oh, thou, who doubt'st if this may be,
Approach you courtain'd couch, and see.

Behold a form, whose youthful morn
Hath known no cloud, whose rose no thorn,
Whose bosom's love no cruel blight,
Whose fondest hope to chilling night,

Still, on her brow, the bridal wreath
Is glittering in the grasp of death,
Hark! from her lips the victor lay
Doth warble, as she sinks away,

And o'er her pallid cheek, the while,
Doth gleam that dear Redeemer's smile,
The quick to hear, the strong to save,
His hand she clasps and dares the wave.

No dimness quells her spirit's light,
Her fearless faith is turn'd to sight,
And welcom'd by celestial bands
Safe on the eternal shore she stands.

But ye who mourn with ceaseless tear
The absence of a friend so dear,
Who find inscrib'd on all below,
A want, a weariness, a woe,

Look up! her home of bliss survey
The pole-star of your pilgrim-way,
Grave on your hearts her parting strain,
And heed her charge "to meet again."