XXVI.
I joy to think, my dear, my only love!
Thou’st laid aside thy load of cumbrous clay,
And wing’d thy joyful flight to realms above,
To pure celestial worlds—away! away!
I see around thy head bright glories play!
I see thee clothed in robes of innocence!
I see the hosts of Heaven in white array!
And can I wish to call thy spirit thence,
Inhabitant of Heaven? thou pure intelligence?