If thou couldst do it by a word, wouldst thou recall him? No!”
The strangers all have look’d their last upon the clay-cold form,
So late instinct with life and health, with pulses beating warm;
’Tis covered now from every eye—alas! ’tis darkly hid,
It lies upon its narrow bed, beneath the coffin lid.
’Twill see no more the sun’s fair light, when night’s dark hours have fled—
It sleeps a long and dreamless sleep, upon that narrow bed.
The childless mourner takes her place amid that tearful throng,
She is the only tearless one, that silent crowd among;
The minister of God has come, he bows his reverend head,