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,