Lie down, frail bo­dy, here,
Earth has no fair­er bed,
No gentl­er pil­low to afford,
Come, rest thy home-sick head.

Lie down, vile bo­dy! here,
This mould is smooth­ly strewn;
No couch of flow­ers more soft­ly spread—
Come, make this grave thine own.

Lie down, with all thy aches,
There is no ach­ing here;
How soon shall all thy life-long ills
For ever dis­ap­pear.

Thro’ these well guard­ed gates
No foe can en­trance gain,
No sick­ness wastes, nor once in­trudes
The me­mo­ry of pain.

The toss­ings of the night,
The fret­tings of the day,
All end; and like a cloud of dawn,
Melt from thy skies away.

Footsore and worn thou art,
Breathless with toil and fight;
How wel­come the long sought rest
Of all this all tran­quil night.

Brief night and qui­et couch
In some star light­ed room,
Watched but by one be­lov­èd eye
Whose light dis­pels all gloom.

A sky with­out a cloud,
A sea with­out a wave—
These are but sha­dows of thy rest
In this thy peace­ful grave.

Rest for the toil­ing hand,
Rest for the anx­ious brow,
Rest for the wea­ry, way-worn feet,
Rest from all la­bor now.

Rest for the fe­vered brain,
Rest for the throb­bing eye;
Through these parched lips of thine no more
Shall pass the moan or sigh.

Soon shall the trump of God
Give out the wel­come sound,
That shakes death’s si­lent cham­ber walls,
And breaks the turf-sealed ground.

You dwell­ers in the dust,
Awake, come forth, and sing;
Sharp has your frost of win­ter been,
But bright shall be your spring.

’Twas sown in weak­ness here;
’Twill then be raised in pow­er;
That which was sown an earth­ly seed
Shall rise a heav’n­ly flow­er.