The Sun is dead–ye heard the curfew toll,
Come, Nature, let us mourn our kindred doom;
My Sun like thine is dead–and o’er my Soul
Despair’s dark midnight spreads her raven gloom,
Yes, she is gone–he called her to illume
The realms where Heaven’s immortal rivers roll
Who bids thy Sun, O Nature, shed the bloom
Of light and life upon a happier pole.
Yet soon thy Sun shall wake his sister light
And lo the shades of Darkness roll away;
She too shall soon from her [ ] height
Pour o’er my breast Religion’s moonlight ray,
To cheer me through my long and lonely night
Till Heaven’s bright Morn lead on the eternal day.