On his earth-stainèd brow and sightless eyes
Still shone the splendours of our Paradise.
Hushed was each dissonance, every fault made clean,
And joys alone I saw, that might have been.
It never seemed our Love could shew so fair
As that dead Presence, shrined in glory there.
I would not have our Love to live again,
And blend each pleasure with his greater pain.—
Oh better far this blessèd death, and rest!
Dead Love I clasp, I cherish to my breast