That hurries heedlessly and wildly by—
Our hearts, to lonely agony consigned,
May thirst without relief—for no reply
Comes from their mouldering breasts, that in their graves lie.
And then we pause to think—alas! how late!
Of deeds that wrung a parent’s heart with pain;
And oh! could we but open death’s dark gate,
And lead them back into the world again—
Oh! but once more to see their face!—’tis vain!
Once more to hear their voice!—’tis sweetly driven