’MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL.
My grief lies all within.—Shakspere, Rich. II.
Tell me not that tears are sorrow,
Tell me not that grief must flow
Like sad drops of rain descending,
Or like streams in valleys low.
Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber,
In the heart that’s dumb with grief
There is eloquence, and mournful,
That doth shame all tear-relief.
From the heart of silent sorrow,
Clouds of woe can never rise,
And dissolve themselves with raining
To congeal in weeping eyes.
Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning,
And the soul may burst with grief;
Nought of weeping nor of moaning,
Nought of tears can give relief.
Deep among the soul’s great mountains,
Silent as the night doth come,
Clouds of grief may soft be raining,
Shrouding every hill in gloom.
Oh, along the channeled valleys,
Sad as Charon’s river’s roll,
Streams of grief may deep be flowing
’Mong the mountains of the soul.