Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Lost

Lost.

My sad tears flow, and weep lost worth,My grief-filled bosom heaves with pain,To think, ah, bitter thought,—on earthI ne'er shall see his face again.

Ah, never more his manly voiceWill mingle with the children's glee,Nor e'er again may I rejoiceAt thought of him come back from sea.

For in the cold dark deep he lies,Who was so gentle, free, and brave,O'er his lone grave the sad wind sighsWhere rolls the wild Atlantic wave.

Yet sweet consoling thought, that HeWho "takes but what He gave away"Has vowed by His sure word to beThe widow's help, the orphan's stay.

Still tears will come when memories sweetRecur of him I mourn in vain,But, ah, the happy hope to meet—To meet—ne'er more to part again!