Ah! what is left for love to prize?
A little dress or trinket toy
Which once could make the innocent eyes
Brighten with glimpses of the joy
The woman feels in being fair —
A chair left sadly in its place —
A little tress of chestnut hair —
A little likeness of her face,
Ah! vacant of the living light
Which magic sunbeam never gave —
And, on our city's northern height,
Across a thousand streets — a grave.
No more, no more. O fruitless pain
Of birth and nurture, wasted years
Of care, and watches watched in vain!
O idle hopes! O idle fears!
'Tis well to tell us she is blest,
That never sin or grief shall break
The quiet of her perfect rest.
O God, but is it well to make
These desolate homes, that round thy throne
Haply may stand in denser throng
The children-angels? Must the tone
Of these pure voices swell the song
That hymns thee Lord of all, and leave
These dreadful gaps of silence here?
O Lord, forgive us if we grieve
Too wildly, if the starting tear
Confuse our vision; make us see
What steadfast, changeless purpose runs
Through all thy ways, to bring to thee,
Or soon or late, thy wandering sons.
Content if slow they come, for sake
Of those they love, and loath to part
From what thou givest, thou dost take
The treasure lest thou lose the heart.