Poems About Loss

The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace Our parting was fu' tender;And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder;But O! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early!Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly;And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly!But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burnOr busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Await alike th' inevitable hour:--The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the faultIf Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample pageRich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of listening senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbad; nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of Luxury and PrideWith incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strifeTheir sober wishes never learn'd to stray;Along the cool sequester'd vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,Dost in those lines their artless tale relate;If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,--

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

There, at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

The next with dirges due in sad array,Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,--Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of EarthA Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,He gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose),The bosom of his Father and his God.

As I went down the water side,None but my foe to be my guide,None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,I hacked him in pieces sma',I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!I'll make a garland of thy hairShall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I die.

O that I were where Helen lies!Night and day on me she cries;Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!If I were with thee, I were blest,Where thou lies low and takes thy rest On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies;Night and day on me she cries;And I am weary of the skies, Since my Love died for me.

And I rest so composedly Now, in my bed,That any beholder Might fancy me dead--Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing,Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbingAt heart--ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing!

The sickness--the nausea-- The pitiless pain--Have ceased, with the fever That madden’d my brain--With the fever called ‘Living’ That burn’d in my brain.

And O! of all tortures That torture the worstHas abated--the terrible Torture of thirstFor the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst--I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst.

--Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very few Feet under ground--From a cavern not very far Down under ground.

And ah! let it never Be foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomy, And narrow my bed;For man never slept In a different bed--And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes,Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses--Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly Lying, it fanciesA holier odour About it, of pansies--A rosemary odour, Commingled with pansies--With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily, Bathing in manyA dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie--Drown’d in a bath Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kiss’d me, She fondly caress’d,And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast--Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguish’d, She cover’d me warm,And she pray’d to the angels To keep me from harm--To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed(Knowing her love), That you fancy me dead--And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed(With her love at my breast), That you fancy me dead--That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter Than all of the manyStars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie--It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie--With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.

I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky,And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood;How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden skyThat arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.

I remember the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow,Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all,Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not knowThat my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath warm on my cheek,And I still keep list’ning for the words You never more will speak.

’Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near,The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here.But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest--For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends,But, O, they love the better still, The few our Father sends!And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin’ and my pride:There’s nothin’ left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on,When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm’s young strength was gone:There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow--I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break,When the hunger pain was gnawin’ there, And you hid it, for my sake!I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore--O, I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can’t reach you more!

I’m biddin’ you a long farewell, My Mary--kind and true!But I’ll not forget you, darling! In the land I’m goin’ to;They say there’s bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there--But I’ll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods I’ll sit, and shut my eyes,And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies;And I’ll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side:And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

He promised me a wedding-ring,--The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;--Now he is wedded to his grave,Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!

Sweet were his words when last we met;My passion I as freely told him;Clasp'd in his arms, I little thoughtThat I should never more behold him!Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.

His mother from the window look'dWith all the longing of a mother;His little sister weeping walk'dThe green-wood path to meet her brother;They sought him east, they sought him west,They sought him all the forest thorough;They only saw the cloud of night,They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look--Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!No longer walk, thou lovely maid;Alas, thou hast no more a brother!No longer seek him east or westAnd search no more the forest thorough;For, wandering in the night so dark,He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek,No other youth shall be my marrow--I'll seek thy body in the stream,And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.--The tear did never leave her cheek,No other youth became her marrow;She found his body in the stream,And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past;Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 't was our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene;The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray,--Till soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care!Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear.My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest?See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Duties enough and little cares; And now was quiet, now astir,--Till God's hand beckoned unawares, And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? What! your soul was pure and true;The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew;And just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide,Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals,--naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant as mighty to make,And creates the love to reward the love; I claim you still, for my own love's sake!Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few;Much is to learn and much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come--at last it will-- When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,In the lower earth,--in the years long still,-- That body and soul so pure and gay?Why your hair was amber I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's red,--And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, Given up myself so many times,Gained me the gains of various men. Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;Yet one thing--one--in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me,--And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; My heart seemed full as it could hold,--There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep; See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand.There, that is our secret! go to sleep; You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone:His last sea-fight is fought,His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock;She sprang no fatal leak,She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfeld went downWith twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel upOnce dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float againFull charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main:

But Kempenfeld is gone,His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.

Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle’s note,Quick in dance as thought can be,Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;O he lies by the willow-tree! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wingIn the brier’d dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth singTo the nightmares, as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;Whiter is my true-love’s shroud:Whiter than the morning sky,Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true-love’s graveShall the barren flowers be laid;Not one holy saint to saveAll the coldness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

With my hands I’ll dent the briersRound his holy corse to gre:Ouph and fairy, light your fires,Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,Drain my heartès blood away;Life and all its good I scorn,Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,Go forth under the open sky, and listTo Nature's teachings, while from all around--Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--Comes a still voice:--Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again;And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements;To be a brother to the insensible rock,And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alone,--nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world,--with kings,The powerful of the earth,--the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods; rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooks,That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man! The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of death,Through the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom. Take the wingsOf morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no soundSave his own dashings,--yet the dead are there!And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep,--the dead reign there alone!So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one, as before, will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glide away, the sons of men--The youth in life's green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron and maid,And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man--Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy sideBy those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan that movesTo the pale realms of shade, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy graveLike one who wraps the drappery of his conchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

O holy Hope! and high Humility, High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have show’d them me, To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just, Shining nowhere, but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.

And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.

If a star were confin’d into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that lock’d her up gives room, She’ll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee!Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass:Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no glass.

Which he kept for battle and days of need; (O, ride as though you were flying!)Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;Worn out chargers staggered and sank;Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;But ride as they would, the king rode first, For his rose of the isles lay dying!

His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!)They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone;His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying!The king looked back at that faithful child;Wan was the face that answering smiled;They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying!

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence!)No answer came; but faint and forlornAn echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing.The castle portal stood grimly wide;None welcomed the king from that weary ride;For dead, in the light of the dawning day,The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying!

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary.The king returned from her chamber of rest,The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eyeing,The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;He bowed his head on his charger's neck:"O steed, that every nerve didst strain,Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying!"

I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet,With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye,Scarcely believing that--he is not there!

I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid;Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; My hand that marble felt; O'er it in prayer I knelt;Yet my heart whispers that--he is not there!

I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed,So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek him inquiringly,Before the thought comes, that--he is not there!

When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake.With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy;Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there!

When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose,I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit prayingFor our boy's spirit, though--he is not there!

Not there!--Where, then, is he? The form I used to seeWas but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress,Is but his wardrobe locked--he is not there!

He lives!--In all the past He lives; nor, to the last,Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now; And, on his angel brow,I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rodSo help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit land, Meeting at thy right hand,'Twill be our heaven to find that--he is there!

Behind her cradle bars she smiled To catch the first faint ray,As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue,As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;And not so close their tendrils fine Round their supports are thrown,As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come, Even as comes the flower,The last and perfect added gift To crown Love's morning hour;And how in her was imaged forth The love we could not say,As on the little dewdrops round Shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God, That she must wither up,Almost before a day was flown, Like the morning-glory's cup;We never thought to see her droop Her fair and noble head,Till she lay stretched before our eyes, Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round,--We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground;The tender things the winter killed Renew again their birth,But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth.

Earth! in vain our aching eyes Stretch over thy green plain!Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, Her spirit to sustain;But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall seeOur morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

All our fond hopes, praying, perished In his wrath,--All the lovely dreams we cherished Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, Far apart,Sundered wide as seas can sunder Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows That were ours,--Bitter nights, more bitter morrows; Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness, Saying, "See,These are yours, in place of gladness,-- Gifts from me"?

Nay, the rest that will be ours Is supreme,And below the poppy flowers Steals no dream.

Fitted with words of lowly praise,And patience learned of mournful days,And memories of the dead child's ways.His will be done, His will be done!Who gave and took away my son,In "the far land" to shine and singBefore the Beautiful, the King,Who every day does Christmas make,All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.

For Charlie's sake I will arise;I will anoint me where he lies,And change my raiment, and go inTo the Lord's house, and leave my sinWithout, and seat me at his board,Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.For wherefore should I fast and weep,And sullen moods of mourning keep?I cannot bring him back, nor he,For any calling, come to me.The bond the angel Death did sign,God sealed--for Charlie's sake, and mine.

I'm very poor--this slender stoneMarks all the narrow field I own;Yet, patient husbandman, I tillWith faith and prayers, that precious hill,Sow it with penitential pains,And, hopeful, wait the latter rains;Content if, after all, the spotYield barely one forget-me-not--Whether or figs or thistle makeMy crop content for Charlie's sake.

I have no houses, builded well--Only that little lonesome cell,Where never romping playmates come,Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb--An April burst of girls and boys,Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joysBorn with their songs, gone with their toys;Nor ever is its stillness stirredBy purr of cat, or chirp of bird,Or mother's twilight legend, toldOf Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold,Or fairy hobbling to the door,Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor,To bless the good child's gracious eyes,The good child's wistful charities,And crippled changeling's hunch to makeDance on his crutch, for good child's sake.

How is it with the child? 'Tis well;Nor would I any miracleMight stir my sleeper's tranquil trance,Or plague his painless countenance:I would not any seer might placeHis staff on my immortal's face.Or lip to lip, and eye to eye,Charm back his pale mortality.No, Shunamite! I would not breakGod's stillness. Let them weep who wake.

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest:No comfort like his mother's breast,No praise like hers; no charm expressedIn fairest forms hath half her zest.For Charlie's sake this bird's caressedThat death left lonely in the nest;For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed,As for its birthday, in its best;For Charlie's sake we leave the rest.To Him who gave, and who did take,And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.