From Christ's dear words my bleeding heart would gather
At length submissive grace,--
He says that in the kingdom of His Father,
They still behold His face.
In the bright garden of the Lord they're staying,
Amid the angels fair;
And heavenly whispers to my heart are saying--
Look up, your treasure's there.
THE SONG OF THE BEREAVED.
(I have borrowed thy pattern, dear Hood, to cut out our mourning
garments.)
With garments for sorrow torn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat by a new-made grave,
Bewailing her slaughtered dead--
Weep! weep! weep!
Tears of remorseful pain;
The sorrow that sorrows without a hope,
Is poured forth above the slain.
Drink! drink! drink!
It slayeth on every side,
Till the blue-eyed baby is fatherless,
And a desolate widow the bride.
O for a gleam of light
On the home, on the friendly hand,
That pours in kindness the burning draught
That maketh a desolate land.
Drink! drink! drink!
The horse-leech ever craves,
There are empty chairs in the desolate home,
And the earth swells with new-made graves.
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