Shed no tears o'er that tomb,
⁠For there are angels weeping;
Mourn not him whose doom
⁠Heaven itself is mourning.

Look how in sable gloom
⁠The clouds are earthward yearning;
And earth receives them home,
⁠Even darker clouds returning.

Is it when good men die
⁠That sorrow wakes above?
Grieve Saints when other spirits fly
⁠To swell their choir of love?

Ah! no: with louder sound
⁠The golden harp strings quiver
When good men gain the happy ground
⁠Where they must dwell for ever.

But he who slumbers there
⁠His bark will strive no more
Across the waters of despair
⁠To reach that glorious shore.

The time of grace is past,
⁠And mercy, scorned and tried,
Forsakes to utter wrath at last
⁠The soul so steeled by pride.