IN MEMORIAM.
257
Heedless of all the passionate kisses Pressed on the coldly beautiful brow,Feeling not one of the sad caresses Showered in agony on her brow.Vain are the whispers of consolation Tenderly meant and so kindly said;We only know we have loved and lost her, We can but feel she is lying dead.
Chide us not, tho' the tears are falling Swiftly and silently like the rain;We feel that bitterest pang of sorrow, That all our sorrowing is in vain.Vain was the loving care we gave her, Fruitless all of the prayers we said;Death has gathered the cloud above her, And flung his snow wreaths over her head.
Ah! yes, we know she had sadly suffered Many a torturing pain for years,Patiently borne, with never a murmur, Melting the pity of others to tears;Know she is safely at rest in heaven— There in its endless and radiant bloom,—But death is death, and its shadow lingers In her empty chair and her silent room.
