And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the Archangel’s blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Longfellow.
’Tis a blessing to live, but a greater to die,
And the best of the world, is its path to the sky,—
Be it gloomy or bright, for the life that He gave
Let us thank Him—but blessed be God for the grave!