A young man has lost his lover to death, and the speaker tells him bluntly to stop complaining. She’s now among the saints, living in endless joy, and simply doesn’t think about earthly matters anymore. She can’t see his tears or hear his sorrow; it’s as if his past kindness never existed. The speaker insists that in heaven she has changed — she no longer loves him the way she once did. That old affection is gone. The advice is stark: put your grief to sleep and stop weeping. The mood feels less like gentle sympathy and more like a cold, almost unsettling reason. There’s comfort, but it’s a comfort that asks you to accept a hard truth: the dead move on, and so must you.
COMFORT TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE — Summary
What needs complaints, When she a place Has with the race Of saints? In endless mirth, She thinks not on What's said or done In earth: She sees no tears, Or any tone Of thy deep groan She hears; Nor does she mind, Or think on't now, That ever thou Wast kind:-- But changed above, She likes not there, As she did here, Thy love. --Forbear, therefore, And lull asleep Thy woes, and weep No more.