With such a fond confiding tenderness—
That often aching head, is now at rest!
O, ’twould be sweet once more thy form to press
Close to my loving heart; but motionless
That form now lies beneath the silent sod!
Well—rest thee there, in sweet forgetfulness,
Till glorious life shall visit thine abode,
And thou shalt rise to dwell forevermore with God!
XXII.
When shall I sleep as thou art sleeping now,