Haply thine eye is on thy people now;
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed,
Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief’s tribute to the dead.
But if th’ ascending, disembodied mind,
Borne on the wings of morning to the skies,
May cast one glance of tenderness behind
On scenes once hallow’d by its mortal ties,
How much hast thou to gaze on! All that lay
By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal’d—
The might, the majesty, the proud array