In its vain yearnings o’er the unconscious bier,)
A hope upspringing clear
From those majestic tidings of the morn,
Which lit the living way to all of woman born.
Mrs. Hemans.
When by a good man’s grave I muse alone,
Methinks an angel sits upon the stone;
Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night,
Who sat and watched in raiment heavenly bright;
And with a voice inspiring joy, not fear,