His lustrous eyes are dim in death,
His voice passed like the zephyr's breath,
That heart has lost its lone;
But while we weep around his dust,
That soul its prison doors hath burst,
And worships 'round the throne.

But shall we murmur and complain?
Shall our warm tears descend like rain
Around his early grave?
While kindred dear must weep and mourn,
More sacred tears bedew his urn
Than ever friendship gave.

That brother, who with him has played
Beside the brook, or in the shade
Where feathered warblers sang,
And sported by the river side,
Or o'er the ice taught him to glide,
While merry laughter rang--

His love increased with growing years,
One were their hopes, their joys, their fears,
Their Savior, too, was one.
That brother's grief must be severe,
Yet from his lips we hope to hear,
"My Father's will be done."

Like ivy, round some youthful pine,