No--I will not deem thee dead, my love, but parted far away,
Through fairer scenes than earth can yield, for evermore to stray;
To dwell where ceaseless pleasures reign, in undecaying rest,
Amid the quiet shades of some far island of the blest.
And there, I ween, thy little feet, from every ill removed,
In frolic mirth now wander, as in infancy they loved;
And still thy little heart exults amid Elysian bowers,
And still thy little fingers pluck the sweetest, fairest flowers.
Oh! winter comes not there, to chill, with short and cheerless day;
Nor summer suns are there, to scorch, with fierce and sultry ray;
Nor hunger there, nor thirst, is known, to mar thine hours of ease;
Nor, raging in his thousand shapes, the tyrant, fell Disease.
And shall I, though thou'rt torn from me, my precious one, repine?
Alas! how poor life's best estate appears, compared with thine--
With thine, who, far removed from all that dims its darkened ray,
Dwellest amid the splendours pure of heaven's unclouded ray.