Bereavement

How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner, As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier, As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner, And drops, to Perfection's remembrance, a tear; When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, Or, if lulled for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming, And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.…