When fairest beings in thy pathway grew?
Oh! heaven hath balm for every wound it makes,
Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne’er forsakes.
These may be fantasies—and this alone,
Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure;
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own,
Rest, in thy God immortally secure!
Enough for tranquil faith; released from all
The woes that graved heaven’s lessons on thy brow,
No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthrall,