'Tis well ! Her mortal part is gone From earth to join its kindred clay; And now hy weeping friends is borne, On yon slow-moving hearse, away. What though the dust returns to dust, Ashes to ashes turn again! The immortal spirit of the just Is freed from sorrow, sin, and pain. Her Savior called her from the earth; To his dear arms her spirit flies; How welcome was the stroke of death! How peacefully the Christian dies! Now in a far more happy clime, Her soul has found its blest abode; And, with immortal gaze sublime. Beholds the glory of her God. There, while ten thousand years roll on In those bright realms of peace and joy, Her love shall rise in higher tone, And praise shall be her sweet employ. Then, mourning friends, dry up your tears. And weep no more for her that's dead; For, O! a few more rolling years Will lay us in our lowly bed.
John Newton Brown, 1818.