Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed,

  Tears, which though vainly now they roll,

Are all love hath to give the dead,

  And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;—

Wept in remembrance of that light.

  Which naught on earth, without thee, gives,

Hope of my heart! now quenched in night,

  But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.

Where is she? where the blooming bough

  That once my life's sole lustre made?

Torn off by death, 'tis withering now,

  And all its flowers in dust are laid.

Oh earth! that to thy matron breast

  Hast taken all those angel charms,

Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,—

  Gently, as in a mother's arms.