Become a desert now, a vale of gloom,
O’ershadow’d with the midnight of the tomb?
Where shalt thou turn? It is not thine to raise
To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze—
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast;
Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed
Her glory round the image of the dead;
And if, when slumber’s lonely couch is prest,
The form departed be thy spirit’s guest,