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I will not say, "Weep not for him,"
For tears are holy now,
But weep them with a deep-hushed heart,
And low-bent, reverent brow.


I will not say, "Mourn not for him,"
When gathering round the bier;
But mourn with awe, remembering
That heaven has come so near.


I will not say, Sigh not above
The calmly-pillowed head;
Our hearts are human, and must throb
With anguish o'er the dead.


The dead? Oh! when the lofty stars
Melt out in yonder sky;
When morning loops night's drapery back--
Do they in fading, die?


And when o'er days great "sleepless eye,"
Falls evening's fringed lid,
Is there one ray of glory lost
Because its beams are hid?


Nor is he lost, tho' now he sleeps
The slumber we call death;
And all that makes it this to us,
Is that we miss his breath.


He only sleeps, the years have passed,
That unto him were given,
His upward path has reached a height
From which he stepped to heaven.