From each chain at the fount, where the heart-streams play!
Hist! hist! did you hear her pass,
The ringing laugh on her lip? Alas!
Say ye again that she slumbers low?
Mourner, why art thou shaken so?
Death is the veil that the spirit takes,
When the light of God on its sorrowing breaks!
Then, then, thou’lt murmur no more!
Peace to the weary who travel before!
Blesséd are they He hath chosen and tried,