1 Mourn not ye whose child hath found
Purer skies and holier ground;
Flow'rs of bright and pleasant hue,
Free from thorns and fresh with dew.

2 Mourn not ye whose child hath fled
From this region of the dead,
To yon winged angel-band,
To a better, fairer land.

3 Knowledge in that clime doth grow
Free from weeds of toil and wo,
Joys which mortals may not share;
Mourn ye not, your child is there.