43
V.
She who doth bend her o'er her lover's urn,
And pour the hopeless tears that wail the dead;
Tho' deep, tho' wild her misery may be,
Grief has for her a gentle anodyne.
There is a flower blooms upon the grave,
A life spring, even in the desert found,
A sunny ray upon the vale of tears—
The memory of his faithfulness; the bliss,
That his last thought was her's; that her's the name
That trembled, even in death, upon his lips.
But where's the balm to soothe the heart that pines
'Neath love's unkindness? where's the spell can charm
Sorrow like that away? Who could have dream'd,
A bud so fair would bring such bitter fruit?
