A widowed mother, mute with grief,
Whose weeping children call in vain,
Their cries and tears bring no relief,
Thou can’st not meet them here again.
And yet, beyond this hour of gloom,
Athwart the sky, the promised bow,
Above these clouds, and o’er thy tomb,
The starry heavens are bending low.
In memory of loving worth,
Sweet thoughts like hidden springs will flow;