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Break not its sleep, the faithful grief, still tender;
God gives at length His own belovèd rest;
How worn the suffering brow! yet those meek fingers
Still press the cross of patience to her breast.


Stir not the air with one sweet, lingering cadence
From life's fair prime of love and hope and song;
Serener airs, from martyr hosts celestial,
To that high trance of conquered peace belong.


Hush mortal joy or wail, hush mortal pæans;
Ye cannot reach that Thabor height sublime
Where God's eternal joy, in tranquil vision,
Seems nearer than the sights and sounds of time.