Go, spirit, of the sainted dead,
Go to thy longed for, happy home:
The tears of man are o’er thee shed;
The voice of angels bids thee come.
If life be not in length of days,
In silvered locks, and furrowed brow,
But living to the Savior’s praise,
How few have lived so long as thou!
Though earth may boast one gem the less,
May not e’en Heav’n the richer be?
And myriads on thy footsteps press,
To share thy blest eternity.