O death, thy power I own,
Whose mission was to rush,
And snatch the rose, so quickly blown,
Down from its native bush;
The flower of beauty doom’d to pine,
Ascends from this to worlds divine.
Death is a joyful doom,
Let tears of sorrow dry,
The rose on earth but fades to bloom
And blossom in the sky.
Why should the soul resist the hand
That bears her to celestial land.
Then, bonny bird, farewell,
Till hence we meet again;
Perhaps I have not long to dwell
Within this cumb’rous chain,
Till on elysian shores eve meet,
Till grief is lost and joy complete.