But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all—
Sound only was made for pain.
That their land is bright and they weep no more,
I have warbled from hill to hill;
But my plaintive strain should have told before,
That they love, oh! they love you still.
They bid me say that unfading flowers
You’ll find in the path they trode;
And a welcome true to their deathless bowers,
Pronounced by the voice of God. 1827.