They are not gone-whom death's dark shroud
Hath curtained from our mortal eye;
They are not gone:
Down to their bed of rest they bowed-
It was their portal to the sky,
The pathway to their throne.
They cannot die-whose being here
Is by its worth immortal made;
They cannot die:
Though the time-wasted sepulchre
In which their vestiges are laid
Crumbled in dust may lie.
They are not dead-whose ashes fill
That melancholy house of clay;
They are not dead:
They live in brighter glory still,
Than ever cheered their earthly way,
Full beaming round their head.