Weep not, oh, do not weep,
Death is a quiet sleep,

To the worn frame that joins its kindred dust,
Death is the dawn of day,

To those who pass away,

The freed rejoicing spirits of the just.

Open the sacred book,

On which I vainly look,

Its glorious words confused before me lie :
But I can listen still,

To learn my Father's will,

And pray, and praise, and love him till I die.

Sweet is the waning light,

Sweet to my failing sight,

And the hushed stillness of the darkened room:

Visions unearthly rise

Before my closing eyes,

Peopling with radiant forms the quiet gloom.

Voices you cannot hear,

Breathe in my listening ear

Their sweet assurance of eternal

peace;

And white-robed angels stand, A calm and glistening band, Waiting my longing spirit's full release.

Let me before we part

Clasp thee to this fond heart;

And while thou kneelest by my dying bed,
Let me with fervent prayer

Commend thee to His care,

And call down blessings on thy youthful head.

And when this breathless clay

In the dark grave you lay,

Think not of me as dead and sleeping there : Think of a spirit blest,

In glory and at rest,

Far from the sorrows of this troubled sphere.