The radiant morn dispels the woeful gloom,
And casts o’er hungry Earth a new perfume.
A white-robed Angel, pinion-fring’d with light,
Beside the empty grave bade one rejoice,
Who, coming from the cross, outran the morn,
In loving haste the body to adorn;
But found it gone—and wept. Oh! hasty choice
Of tears, for one who was the first to turn
Her eyes upon her Lord, and hear his voice.