HE languish'd by the way-side, and fell down Before the noon-day. In his hand were flowers Pluck'd for his lady-love. He died ere they Upon their rootless stalks had withered. In his fair home there was a widow'd form, To whom the echo of his coming step Had been as music. Now, alone she sits, Tearful and pale! The world, henceforth, to her Is desolate and void. Young Love may weep, But sunbeams dry its tears, and the quick pulse Of hope, in beauty's bosom doth o'ercome The syncope of grief. But unto age So utterly bereav'd -- what now remains, Save with bow'd head and finger on its lip, In silent meekness, and in sanctity, The Heavenly Pilot ever in its view, To pass the narrow strait that coldly bars Time's crumbling shore, from vast Eternity |