Before his Maker, low?
And where are they, who might have felt
What none but parents know!
In vain she waits, and looks around,
Still vainer are her cries;
With shrieks the sacred aisles resound;—
Save echo, naught replies:
Fell grief her throbbing heart enthrals,—
Her lips grow ghastly pale;
She weeps—she faints—and senseless falls