The pure ecstatic “joy of grief,” the trust in Heaven alone.
O, if there be a holy joy, unmingled, it is this—
For those we best have loved on earth, the certainty of bliss!
Weep not, ye strangers! weep not thus, for her who is bereaved—
Ye surely weep not for the soul so late to Heaven received!
I know ’tis sad, ’tis very sad, to see that fair young flower—
That rosebud bright and beautiful, all withered in an hour;
But could ye look away from earth, and from the yawning tomb,
In deathless, bright, unearthly tints, ye’d see that flow’ret bloom.
And now, behold! those silent ones—that group of ladies fair!