Is it the sleep of death thy wayward mind Misnames the loveliest, since it dreams the least? And can a soul like thine expect to find In death eternal sleep, and dreamless rest? Ah! probe tho' sharp the pang, thy erring breast, Thy talents give that sophist's saw the lie; Thy feelings wildly tenderly exprest, Proclaim the heavenly flame that cannot die: Let reason leech the morbid thoughts that try To darken all the horrors of the tomb, And turn to realms of light thy wandering eye Where pure religion's sun-beams chace the gloom. So shall unclouded bliss to thee belong, Immortal too beyond thy own transcendent song.
