 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
141
THE LIVING.
I weep no longer for the dead,
My tears are for the living shed,—
The living, whose o'erwearied feet
A dark and thorny pathway beat,—
The living, who in shame and sin,
Eclipse the light that might have been;
The living, who so wildly crave
The tearless quiet of the grave!
My tears are for the living shed,—
The living, whose o'erwearied feet
A dark and thorny pathway beat,—
The living, who in shame and sin,
Eclipse the light that might have been;
The living, who so wildly crave
The tearless quiet of the grave!
I weep for thee, oh, erring one,
Whose deeds of good are all undone,—
Whom all love's strivings could not win
Back from the paths of guilt and sin;
Thou who hast wronged a true heart's trust,
And trod it, bleeding, in the dust,—
Oh, lost to truth and purity
I weep for thee,—I weep for thee!
Whose deeds of good are all undone,—
Whom all love's strivings could not win
Back from the paths of guilt and sin;
Thou who hast wronged a true heart's trust,
And trod it, bleeding, in the dust,—
Oh, lost to truth and purity
I weep for thee,—I weep for thee!
142
I weep for thee, oh, suffering heart,
Whose fate can know no brighter part,—
Left to the darkness of despair,
And tried beyond its strength to bear;
Breaking because it may not yield,
Bruised by the hand that should have healed,—
Scorned, slighted, crushed so cruelly,—
I weep for thee,—I weep for thee!
Whose fate can know no brighter part,—
Left to the darkness of despair,
And tried beyond its strength to bear;
Breaking because it may not yield,
Bruised by the hand that should have healed,—
Scorned, slighted, crushed so cruelly,—
I weep for thee,—I weep for thee!
I weep for thee, oh fair young child,
Thrown on a world so wide and wild,—
Doomed, for another's sin, to stray
Along life's darkest, weariest way;—
Born to no heritage but tears,
And toil, and pain, through all life's years,—
Oh, heir of grief and poverty,
I weep for thee,—I weep for thee!
Thrown on a world so wide and wild,—
Doomed, for another's sin, to stray
Along life's darkest, weariest way;—
Born to no heritage but tears,
And toil, and pain, through all life's years,—
Oh, heir of grief and poverty,
I weep for thee,—I weep for thee!
I weep no longer for the dead;—
The wind sings sweetly o'er their bed
A soothing hymn—a lulling tune,—
They sleep—they rest,—oh, blesséd boon!
Better that those for whom I weep
Were lying in their graves asleep!
Oh, no!—I weep not for the dead,—
My tears are for the living shed!
The wind sings sweetly o'er their bed
A soothing hymn—a lulling tune,—
They sleep—they rest,—oh, blesséd boon!
Better that those for whom I weep
Were lying in their graves asleep!
Oh, no!—I weep not for the dead,—
My tears are for the living shed!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |