Page:Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir 1828.pdf/21

Then, tho' the wind an altered tone
    Through the young foliage bear,
Tho' every flower, of something gone,
    A tinge may wear;

Oh! fly it not!—no fruitless grief
    Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
    There, where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread,
    Still tend their garden-bower,
And call them back, the holy Dead,
    To each lone hour!

The holy Dead!—oh! blest we are,
    That we may name them so,
And to their spirits look afar,
    Through all our woe!

Blest, that the things they loved on earth,
    As relics we may hold,
Which wake sweet thoughts of parted worth,
By springs untold!

Blest, that a deep and chastening power
    Thus o'er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
    Yet all for Heaven!