And the great ages onward roll.

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet,

Nothing comes to thee new or strange.

Sleep, full of rest from head to feet;

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.

Tennyson.

O Thou, who in the garden’s shade

Didst wake Thy weary ones again,

Who slumbered at that fearful hour;

Forgetful of Thy pain;