But for the beaming of that quenchless light

That plays around it, like the radiance

Of heaven's own glory stamped upon its work?

[Pg 24]

What were the charm of the soft arching brow

White as the snow-flake 'neath its golden braid?

What were the dimpled cheek with roseate shades

Spread o'er it like the budding of a flower,

The lips' ripe crimson, and the melting eye,

Unbrightened by the sunshine from within,

The emanations of seraphic thought,

And full emotion, kindling into life

Light, grace, the temple that they glorify?

Oh Death! when thou dost bear the soul away

The charm is shattered—the illusion gone!

Ay, they are beautiful, and as bright forms

Make fair the mirrors that they image in,

So are their courses glorious and glad.

Still doth their swelling harmony ascend

In thrilling cadence to the gates of heaven,

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