Ix

How bless'd is he who, gazing in the tomb, Can yet behold beneath the investing mask Of mockery,--whose horror seems to ask Sphinx-riddles of the soul within the gloom,-- Upon dead lips no dust of Love's dead bloom; And in dead hands no shards of Faith's rent flask; But Hope, who still stands at her starry task, Weaving the web of promise on her loom! Thrice bless'd! who, 'though he hear the tomb proclaim How all is Death's and Life Death's other name, Can yet reply: "O Grave, these things are yours! But that is left which life indeed assures-- Love, through whose touch I shall arise the same! Love, of whose self was wrought the universe!"