At last a gentle sleep he slept,
And hope came in her breast,
As she beheld the tranquil smiles
Which on his features rest.
She sat and sighed, “Ah me! ah me!
Oh for the time again
When I shall see thy happy smile
Its wonted mirth regain!
Then shall we, as in time before,
The tranquil hours employ
In love and in a measure full
Of unpolluted joy.”
Oh, child of hope! She knew not then
That he who by her lay
Was closed in death’s unyielding arms,
His spirit borne away.
And when she turned from these fair dreams,
And saw he breathed no more,
Oh! woeful was it to behold
The grief the maiden bore.
She grasped the pale and lifeless form;
Her tears fell on it fast;
She sat the long night through and wept,
And wept the noonday past.
No more she cares for earthly things,
Nor friendly presence nigh;
These gladly now would leave behind,
And now would gladly die.
Dear mourner, is there nought to calm—
To soothe thy troubled breast?
Is there no balm to heal its wounds,
And give thy spirit rest?
Yes! there is one—a fragrant balm,
A fountain filled with love,
Which floweth ever full and free
In the bright realms above.
’Tis there the weary and the sad
Can comforts true receive,
And there the bleeding heart alone
Its anguish can relieve.