Flow, flow, my tears; I stay you not; but pray
To my unhappy voice close not the way.
My plaintive griefs with words, O let me move;
To say, 'Alas, he died!' allow my love.
Lo, they say, no--the rebel tears say, no!
And with unconquer'd headlong torrent flow.
Wouldst thou, O dear one, that our silence speak?
Mute love with ceaseless sob moisten our cheek?
It shall; and still thine urn drink its own dews,
And never its own faithful waters lose.
Meanwhile let no one think a wonder wrought,
If real tears to speak could not be taught. R. WI.