Her sons on gory couches slept,
Felt not more desolate and lone.
In many hearts the gloomy sway
Of sorrow lessens, day by day,
Until the charms of life at last
Blot out remembrance of the past:
As winds may kiss the trampled flower,
And lift again its bruiséd leaf,
So time, with his assuaging power,
May stay the wasting march of grief: