Woe is the guest
Of every breast
As they turn from the grave,
Bordered in a wave
Of melancholy deep.
But their woe is not as our woe
In fervor or depth; they cannot know
The fulness to weep
Which we know,--
We who have held the keep
Of her noble heart,
Who was of our unity the crown,
And who was the bosom of our home,
Where did the soul of every member come.
We know the part,
As true mourners, to weep;
For never again,
While time doth remain,
Shall we hear her voice
Relating in choice
Some well-pleasing tale,
Which never could fail
The hours to beguile,
As many a smile
Ran from face unto face.
But now her wonted place
Is vacant, and we
Can sorrow but see
In all things which she
By remembrance comes.
Yet there is a soft tranquil in presence of grief,
Which filleth the bosom of hallowed relief,
Making the pang sweet which rendeth the heart,
Soothing the sorrow and easing the smart,
Leading the mind from vain follies away,
To seek a more sacred and truthful array.