’Tis bitter when beneath the midnight moon
We wander near the graves of those we love;
The lone heart sinks, and sighs for the bless’d boon
Of rest above.
When wearied age, with retrospective view,
Sees in the record of departed years
A tale of blighted hopes—he reads it through
With bitter tears.
’Tis bitter when our days are almost done,
To feel for wasted talents vain regret,