Sunk in self-consuming anguish Can the poor heart always ache 1
No, the tortur'd nerve will languish, Or the strings of life must break.
O'er the yielding brow of sadness, One faint smile of comfort stole,
One soft pang of tender gladness, Exquisitely thrill'd your soul.
While the wounds of woe are healing, While the heart is all resign'd,
'Tis the solemn feast of feeling, Tis the sabbath of the mind.
Pensive memory then retraces Scenes of bliss for ever fled,
Lives in former scenes and places, Holds communion with the dead!
And when night's prophetic slumbers Rend the veil to mortal eyes,
From their tombs the sainted numbers, Of our lost companions rise.
You have seen a friend, a brother, Heard a dear, dearfather speak;
Proved the fondness of a mother, Felt her tears upon your cheek.
