And bid the soul awake to hope and gladness,
Along the vistas of the future spread.
The mother, whose beloved infant slumbers,
Cold, in the silent chamber of the tomb,
Oft hears its pleasing voice, like seraph’s numbers,
Fall on her ear amidst surrounding gloom.
The lonely orphan, by the world forsaken,
Oft seems the kindness of the dead to share;
And feels a thrill of new-born joy awaken,
As if embraced with fond, parental care.