He died, but oh! his name shall live.
But hark! though death has brought relief,
An honor saved, a glory won;
The voice of woe, “My son! my son!”
No wonder if her grief be wild,
He was the widow’s only child.
Loved ones, bereaved ones, no more from sleep
Wake in the silent hours wildly to weep;
All does not die with the swift-fleeting breath,
There is light in the darkness; even in death.