O, when the bitter tear of anguish starts,
When every cheering ray of hope departs,
When tides of sorrow o’er the bosom roll,
And pleasure vainly tries her dazzling arts,
If aught on earth can soothe the stricken soul,
Sweet sympathy will oft grief’s raging tide control.
IV.
But let me with my mournful task proceed;
’Tis pleasing, though ’tis mournful. I have said
How my dear brother, in her hour of need,