by Eliza Acton
I know how vain it is to mourn
O'er blighted hopes, and friendship fled;
How yet more vain it is, to turn
With sorrow to the slumb'ring dead.
Oh! they sleep well!-for o'er their rest
No dark, and life-like mock'ries come
To cloud the brain, and wring the breast,
Which in the grave hath found a home !
Last updated January 14, 2019