The dead

How they so softly rest,

All they the holy ones,

Unto whose dwelling place

Now doth my soul draw near!

How they so softly rest,

All in their silent graves,

Deep to corruption

Slowly down sinking!

And they no longer weep,

Here, where complaint is still!

And they no longer feel,

Here, where all gladness flies!

And, by the cypresses

Softly o'ershadowed,

Until the Angel

Calls them, they slumber!