To wake no more till waken’d by the sound
Of the archangel’s trumpet? Here below
I would not always dwell. The cold damp ground
Has sweeter charms for me than can be found
On downy pillow. I shall not be free
Till pale faced mourners shall my grave surround,
And many a faithful friend who loveth me,
Shall seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.
XXIII.
For my poor heart is often full of grief—