OH, LEAVE HER TO HER GRIEF.
I
Oh, leave her to her grief,
Nor urge her to forget;
All art is vain to soothe her pain:
She mourns her loved one yet.
II
The storm will run its course,
And not till clouds have burst,
Shall light appear, serene and clear,
And glorious as at first.
III
Oh, leave her till she weep!
And when the tear-drops flow,
Let Pity's word, soft stealing, heard,
Be music to her woe.
IV
And water'd by those tears,
A little flower shall bloom;
A blossom fair, for Love to wear—
A hope beyond the tomb.
