All the home voices, blest in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long-bereft.
Over thine orphan head
The storm hath swept as o'er a willow's bough:
Come to thy father!—it is finish'd now;
Thy tears have all been shed.
In thy divine abode
Change finds no pathway, mem'ry no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory—death by love no place!
Come, Spirit! to thy God!