Burial of the Dead

I thought to meet no more, so dreary seem'd  
Death's interposing veil, and thou so pure,  
 Thy place in Paradise  
 Beyond where I could soar;  
 
Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts
Spring like unbidden violets from the sod,  
 Where patiently thou tak'st  
 Thy sweet and sure repose.  
 
The shadows fall more soothing: the soft air  
Is full of cheering whispers like thine own;
 While Memory, by thy grave,  
 Lives o'er thy funeral day;  
 
The deep knell dying down, the mourners' pause,  
Waiting their Saviour's welcome at the gate.—  
 Sure with the words of Heaven  
 Thy spirit met us there,  
 
And sought with us along th' accustom'd way  
The hallow'd porch, and entering in, beheld  
 The pageant of sad joy  
 So dear to Faith and Hope.
 
O! hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise  
To cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touch'd  
 The sacred springs of grief  
 More tenderly and true,  
 
Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low,  
Low as the grave, high as th' Eternal Throne,  
 Guiding through light and gloom  
 Our mourning fancies wild,  
 
Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve  
Around the western twilight, all subside  
 Into a placid faith,  
 That even with beaming eye  
 
Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall;  
So many relics of a frail love lost,  
 So many tokens dear
 Of endless love begun.  
 
Listen! it is no dream: th' Apostles' trump  
Gives earnest of th' Archangel's;—calmly now,  
 Our hearts yet beating high  
 To that victorious lay  
 
(Most like a warrior's, to the martial dirge  
Of a true comrade), in the grave we trust  
 Our treasure for awhile:  
 And if a tear steal down,  
 
If human anguish o'er the shaded brow  
Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth  
 Touches the coffin-lid;  
 If at our brother's name,  
 
Once and again the thought, 'for ever gone,'  
Come o'er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright,  
 Thou turnest not away,  
 Thou know'st us calm at heart.  
 
One look, and we have seen our last of thee,  
Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o'er.  
 O cleanse us, ere we view  
 That countenance pure again,  
 
Thou, who canst change the heart, and raise the dead!  
As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour,  
 Be ready when we meet,  
 With Thy dear pardoning words.