For death, that steals the living spirit,
Gives all earth’s fragments to its heirs.
Send round no circling-briefs of sorrow,
No garments of the raven borrow;
’Tis idle charge, ’tis costly pride.
Be gay, through rain and frosty weather,
Nor gather idle priests together
To chant my humble grave beside.
Cry, orphans! Cry, ye poor! imploring
The everlasting God, that He