With beauty clothe a sadder scene!
There, cold in death, the father slept—
There, pale in woe, the daughter wept!
Yes! she might weep—but one stood nigh,
With horror in his tearless eye,
That eye which ne’er again shall close
In the deep quiet of repose;
No more on earth beholding aught
Save one dread vision, stamp’d on thought.
But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid