I' LL weep no more, no more for thee
Tho' thou ly'st cold and low;
There is an immortality
Beyond this sphere of woe.

The sun of every spark bereaves
The fire his beams behold;
Which mingles with his orb, and leaves
The bars that held it cold.

So Death is but a ray intense
Of the Creator's love,
Which draws the clay-bound spirit hence,
To join its source above.