Bereavement
I.
How
stern
are
the
woes
of
the
desolate
mourner
As
he
bends
in
still
grief
o'er
the
hallowed
bier,
As
enanguished
he
turns
from
the
laugh
of
the
scorner,
And
drops
to
perfection's
remembrance
a
tear;
When
floods
of
despair
down
his
pale
cheeks
are
streaming,
When
no
blissful
hope
on
his
bosom
is
beaming,
Or,
if
lulled
for
a
while,
soon
he
starts
from
his
dreaming,
And
finds
torn
the
soft
ties
to
affection
so
dear.
II.
Ah!
when
shall
day
dawn
on
the
night
of
the
grave,
Or
summer
succeed
to
the
winter
of
death?
Rest
awhle,
hapless
victim!
and
Heaven
will
save
The
spirit
that
hath
faded
away
with
the
breath.
Eternity
points,
in
its
amaranth
bower
Where
no
clouds
of
fate
o'er
the
sweet
prospect
lour,
Unspeakable
pleasure,
of
goodness
the
dower,
When
woe
fades
away
like
the
mist
of
the
heath.
