That wound hath quell'd
The last pulsation of a mighty heart,
And weeping thousands wail o'er slaughter'd Saul.
"YE SHALL SEEK ME IN THE MORNING, BUT I SHALL NOT BE."
The friend who taught my infant tongue
Its broken utterance to combine,
Who bending o'er my slumbers sung
Her cradle-hymn with smile benign,
Who in my childish sports would share
The gayest laugh, the wildest glee,
And in my hour of youthful care
Dispel its sadness,—where is she?—
The morning o'er the gilded grove
Bright on the kindling landscape fell,
I sought her where she oft did rove
In want and sorrow's lonely cell;—
I sought her in the hallow'd dome
Where sabbath bells peal'd loud and clear,
I sought her in her peaceful home
But heard no more her welcome dear.
I sate me in her custom'd seat,
But there her book unopen'd lay,
Her garden breathed its fragrance sweet
From thousand shrubs and flowrets gay,
Her lillies pale did graceful bend,
Her green vine clasp'd its favorite tree,
