And could he speak, he’d tell his grief, with true heart-eloquence;
E’en now, methinks, he seems to speak, as mournfully he lies,
And looks into his mistress’ face with those confiding eyes.
A crowd is slowly gathering within that silent room;
With eyes intent upon the ground, and sober steps they come;
Their errand is a holy one, to follow to the grave
The beautiful young creature, whom nor tears nor prayers could save;
To place the precious dust within its narrow cheerless home,
And with true hearted sympathy, to weep beside the tomb.
The mother leaves her station near the chosen of her heart;