Sadly, like some childless mourner,
“To the church-yard they have borne her,
And torn hearts are throbbing madly,
Washed by Sorrow’s surge”—
Hark! a voice replieth sadly—
Sadly, like a dirge.
“Oh! she longed for May to greet her
With a honied kiss—
Greet her where bright eyes were glancing,
And the forms of sylphs were dancing