O, stay thy tears! for they are blest
Whose days are past, whose toil is done;
Here midnight care disturbs our rest,
Here sorrow dims the morning sun.
For laboring virtue’s anxious toil,
For patient sorrow’s stifled sigh,
For faith that marks the conqueror’s spoil,
Heaven grants the recompense,—to die.
How blest are they whose transient years
Pass like an evening meteor’s flight,
Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears,
Whose course is short, unclouded, bright!
O, cheerless were our lengthened way,
But heaven’s own light dispels the gloom,
Streams downward from eternal day,
And sheds a glory round the tomb!
Then stay thy tears,—the blest above
Have hailed a spirit’s heavenly birth,
Sung a new song of joy and love;
Then why should anguish reign on earth?