Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye,
There is but one method” which he can discover
That’s likely to answer—that one is “to die!”
He’s wrong—the wan and withering cheek;
The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart;
The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak
The misery of the breaking heart;
The wasted form, th’enfeebled tone
That whispering mocks the pitying ear;
Th’ imploring glances heaven-ward thrown