Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath.
One pang—’tis past—her task on earth is done,
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown.
But he for whom she died—oh! who may paint
The grief to which all other woes were faint?
There is no power in language to impart
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart,
By the dread Searcher of the soul survey’d:
These have no words—nor are by words portray’d.