’Tis not when we look on the dreamless dead,

And feel that the spirit forever has fled;

’Tis not when we’re called to the voiceless tomb

By the loved who were culled in their brightest bloom;

’Tis not when the grave’s last rite is o’er,

And we know they are gone to return no more;

But, oh! ’tis when Time with oblivious wing

A balm to all other hearts may bring;

When the dark, dark hours of grief are o’er,

And we join the world we can love no more,—

That world whose grief for the absent one

Passed like a cloud from an April sun;

When, amid the mirth that salutes the ear,

One tone is gone we had used to hear,

One form is missed in that happy train,

That will never exult in its sports again;

We feel that death has indeed passed o’er,

And a blank is left, to be filled no more.

But though the world and its witching smile,

That cheats the heart of its woes awhile,

Would prove in its time of deepest need

But the frail support of a broken reed,

Religion’s beam has the magic power

To chase the cloud from its darkest hour,

To turn the soul from its idols here,

And fix its hopes on a purer sphere;

Then land it safe in a port of rest,

The haven sure of a Saviour’s breast.