A Lament

The circle is broken, one seat is forsaken,     One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken;     One heart from among us no longer shall thrill     With joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill.     Weep! lonely and lowly are slumbering now     The light of her glances, the pride of her brow;     Weep! sadly and long shall we listen in vain     To hear the soft tones of her welcome again.     Give our tears to the dead! For humanity's claim     From its silence and darkness is ever the same;     The hope of that world whose existence is bliss     May not stifle the tears of the mourners of this.     For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throw     On the scene of its troubled probation below,     Than the pride of the marble, the pomp of the dead,     To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed.     Oh, who can forget the mild light of her smile,     Over lips moved with music and feeling the while,     The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, and clear,     In the glow of its gladness, the shade of its tear.     And the charm of her features, while over the whole     Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul;     And the tones of her voice, like the music which seems     Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams!     But holier and dearer our memories hold     Those treasures of feeling, more precious than gold,     The love and the kindness and pity which gave     Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave!     The heart ever open to Charity's claim,     Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame,     While vainly alike on her eye and her ear     Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer.     How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper     With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper,     Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay,     With warnings in love to the passing astray.     For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them     Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem;     And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove,     And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love.     As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven,     As a star that is lost when the daylight is given,     As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss,     She hath passed to the world of the holy from this.