When sorely aches the stricken heart,
How sweet it is to be alone;
Where precious tears can freely flow,
And none can hear my stifled moan.
Sweet Solitude! thou art to me,
Like rivers in a desert waste
To faint and weary travelers,
Who long the cooling stream to taste.
O, ye, whose hearts are desolate—
Ye tearful mourners, can ye tell