From folly-nurtured love’s bewildering sway
To set me free, thy hand had power alone;
While I, though yet my heart to weakness clung,
With rapturous fondness on thy lessons hung.
But Oh! not yet—though heard no longer here—
The music of thy voice is dead to me!
It speaks within, in accents strong and clear,
Deep from the heart devoted still to thee.
And this its burthen—‘Is the shadowy bier
So dread a thing? So fearful can it be