The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.

Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.

Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

Is not thy home among the flowers?

A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.