SWEET angel! dear, departed shade of love! Where is thy home in those bright spheres above? Soar'st thou on pinions timidly unfurled, In new-fledged glory through the unseen world,— Where new-born spirits, freed from earth's alloy, Bask ever in the beams of perfect joy,— In bright Elysian fields, 'mong perfumed bowers, Where fadeth never love's perennial flowers?
Or dost thou stand amid the glittering throng Of highest cherubim! Dost join the song Of praises chanted in the heavenly choir, Where spirit-fingers sweep the golden lyre? Ah, yes, sweet voices whisper to my heart,— Soft, angel voices,—telling me thou art Amid the purest, highest of the blest, Whose souls have entered into perfect rest.
