There sits a mourner, solitary now
With downcast eyes, and pale dejected brow.
Cold is the pillow where she laid her head,
When last they sat beneath their favorite shade—
Hushed is the voice, which ever to her own
Answered in tones of tenderness alone.
Stilled are the merry notes of childish glee,
And she is left—of all that family!
She looks abroad—and sees no welcome smile,
No cheerful sounds her weary hours beguile,
She looks within—and all is mute despair,
She looks to Heaven—oh! joy! her all is there.