Soft he sleeps, where floweth the winding river:
Winds blow light; they dare not awake the sleeper, —
One so young and lovely, so full of beauty,
Grandeur, and glory.

Soft he sleeps, a child on his cross reposing, —
Smiles in peace, unknowing of future sorrows;
Bright and pure, as spirit of life, — as rose-bud,
Fresh in his beauty.

Yet that look reveals, in its pensive sweetness,
Deep and holy love, that will after lead him
Forth to heal and save, and to higher being
Kindly allure us.

Now that cross the couch, where he sweetly slumbers:
When his deeds of love have alarmed and maddened,
On that cross, in death, he shall yield his spirit
Back to its heaven.
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