“Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead.
For he is at rest, and we in tears!”
THE STRANGER’S HEART.
The stranger’s heart! Oh, wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.
Thou think’st the vine’s low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow’s tone—