Pure from its ruins, hath return’d to God!
Yet may not England o’er her father weep:
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.
Vain voice of Reason, hush!—they yet must flow,
The unrestrain’d, involuntary tears;
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe,
Roused by the glorious shades of vanish’d years.
Tell us no more ’tis not the time for grief,
Now that the exile of the soul is past,
And Death, blest messenger of heaven’s relief,