Page:Poems Terry, 1861.djvu/101

So her sad soul its vigil holds,
As year on year to life unfolds,
  And wears her patient breast.

Not any leech can find a cure
For these slow miseries that endure,
Till heaven before her eyes shall ope
The golden gate foreseen by hope,
  And medicine her heart.

There is no new life for the dead,
No gathering up the tears once shed;
Pray, ye beloved, who pity her,
That God no more that rest defer;
  Pray that her soul depart.