Much as we prize the active worth
Of those who, day by day,
Tread with us on this toilsome earth
Its devious, thorny way;
A charm more hallow'd and profound,
By purer feelings fed,
Imagination casts around
The memory of the dead!

They form the living links, which bind
Our spirits to that state
Of being — pangless, pure, refined,
For which in faith we wait.
By them, through holy hope and love,
We feel in hours serene
Connected with a world above,
Immortal and unseen!

" The dead are like the stars by day,
Withdrawn from mortal eye; "
Yet holding unperceived their way
In heaven's unclouded sky.
The mists of earth to us may mar
The splendour of their light;
But they, beyond sun, moon, or star,
Shine on in glory bright.

In this brief world of chance and change,
Who has not felt and known
How much may alter and estrange
Hearts fondly deem'd our own?
But those whom we lament awhile,
" Not lost, but gone before, "
Doubt cannot darken, sin defile,
Or frailty alter more!

For death its sacred seal hath set
On bright and by-gone hours!
And they, whose absence we regret,
Seem more than ever OURS !
Ours, by the pledge of love and faith,
And hope of heaven on high;
A trust — triumphant over death
In immortality.