With your lamentations and tears,

With your sad forebodings and fears;

When my lips are dumb

Do not come.

Bring no long train of carriages,

No hearse crowned with waving plumes,

Which the gaunt glory of death illumes;

But my hands on my breast

Let me rest.

Insult not my dust with your pity,

Ye who've left on this desolate shore

Still to suffer and lose and deplore -

'Tis I should, as I do,

Pity you.

For me no more are the hardships,

The bitterness, heartaches, and strife,

The sadness and sorrows of life,

But the glory divine -

This is mine.

Poor creatures!

Afraid of the darkness,

Who groan at the anguish to come.

How silent I go to my home!

Cease your sorrowful bell -

I am well!