1 From his low bed of mortal dust,
Escap'd the prison of his clay,
The new inhabitant of bliss
To heav'n directs his wond'rous way.
2 Ye fields, that witness'd once his tears,
Ye winds, that wafted oft his sighs,
Ye mountains, where he breath'd his pray'rs,
When sorrow's shadows veil'd his eyes;
3 No more the weary pilgrim mourns,
No more affliction wrings his heart;
Th'unfetter'd soul to God returns--
Forever he and anguish part!
4 Receive, O earth, his faded form,
In thy cold bosom let it lie;
Safe let it rest from ev'ry storm--
Soon must it rise, no more to die!