Perhaps ’t is this, that makes me weep—
The thought that I shall pass away,
And those, who have thee then to keep,
May glance at thee, and still be gay.
But why should grief be felt by me,
For fear that others will not grieve?
And what to others then will be
A shade of life, that I may leave?
Still, from their deep, mysterious spring
Gush up these hot, resistless tears;
Whilst thou, cold, heartless, stoic thing,
Dost wear a smile that ’s set for years.
Years! Ah, but then, when years shall wipe
From being every line of thee,
The spirit, which thy prototype
Enshrined, shall live eternally!
[THE WIDOW’S ONLY SON.]
She wrapped her in her sable cloak,
And walked beside the sea;
But seldom of her sorrow spoke,—
Too full of grief was she!
’T was this that made her heart so sad,
To view the ocean wide:
The only son, that widow had,
Went out to sea and died.
And then, in that great, rolling deep,
With solemn, tearful eyes,
His mess-mates lowered him down, to sleep
Till all the dead shall rise.