| |
| THOUGH life may fade, love never dies, | |
| And all but love, is now a dream | |
| To her, who in her long sleep lies | |
| Enwrapped in flowers, and love supreme. | |
| What, if the solemn shadows stir, | 5 |
| To sobbing sighs and broken prayer, | |
| Love folds its mantle over her | |
| And shields her, in its tender care. | |
| |
| Sadly the mystic hours of night | |
| Flit past, still undisturbed by these, | 10 |
| Or sudden glow of morning light | |
| Or waking birds, or waving trees. | |
| She lies, who heeds not days and hours, | |
| The sweet, soft bird song, nor one tear | |
| Beneath her canopy of flowers | 15 |
| Indifferent now to joy and fear. | |
| |
| Earth’s voices touch her not; nor grieve | |
| Her warm and generous heart with pain, | |
| O sorrowing mourners, we believe | |
| That God shall raise her up again, | 20 |
| That in some half-guessed, happier sphere, | |
| Some perfect world, but part confessed | |
| To us poor mortals weeping here, | |
| “He giveth His beloved rest.” | |
| |
| And so Beloved, we part from you, | 25 |
| We, clothed by you, and housed and fed, | |
| Not hopeless, though the words are true, | |
| Our blessed Baroness is dead! | |
| The poor, your monument shall raise, | |
| Statelier than sculptured tomb above | 30 |
| That cherished form, of love and praise | |
| Who loved her God; whose God is love. | |
| |
