Why feed with bitter grief thy woe-fraught mind,
Why pants thy heart with visionary pain?
Why give thy tresses to the ruffled wind?
No more let strains of hopeless sorrow flow;”—
He spoke, my father burst upon my eyes!
“For me no more unlock the source of woe,”
In strains divine my honour’d parent cries.
“For I am seated in the realms of light,
Where founts of bliss from joys perennial play;
Where suns of glory purify the sight,