XXI.
No—I will not repine. It were not well
To mourn for thee, my darling! Not for thee!
No—thou hast gone ’mid perfect love to dwell,
And ‘death is swallow’d up in victory!’
I wish thee joy—from pain and sorrow free,
While on thy mother earth reclines thy head!
All soft and peaceful may thy slumbers be,
Till the last trump shall sound, when time has fled,
To wake the sleeping pulses of the silent dead!