SONNET.
 
        Oh! in that better land to which I go,
            Say, shall I know thee as I know thee here;
            And will thy presence dim that glorious sphere,
        As it hath darkened all the earth below?
        Oh! will that voice enchain my listening ear,
            Whose "frozen music" stops my pulses now;
        And shall I meet in that fair land of bliss
        Those calm, cold eyes that chill me so in this?
            Shall I bear hence e'en memory of thee?
        Unheeded then will pass the Angel throngs;
        I shall not hear the Seraph's burning songs,
            And heaven itself will be all dark to me.
        Oh give me rather that drear, hopeless faith,
        That sees no morn beyond the night of death!