Were what you feel upon a lonely shore,
Where not a sound is heard except the surge,
In which some billow hymns its dying dirge.
Her eyes would swim, her bosom heave with grief,
When pale misfortune poured its tragic theme;
As in the quick wind shakes the forest leaf,
An orphan’s wo would tremble in her dream;
The tears despair had hardened into stone,
Would melt to dew, when mingled with her own.
You deemed that such an one, if death were nigh,