Oh, I sometimes have questioned, when lingering near
The home of the dead, of the friends who were dear,
If the brightest enchantments of earth could repair
The sad devastation that time has made there;
If the joys of the world had a balm to impart,
That would act as a charm to the woes of the heart.
Yes, there is such a balm, but it comes from above,
It is wafted to earth on the pinions of love;
’Tis the spirit of piety, spotless and pure,
That teaches us calmly life’s ills to endure;