Not mourn for thee? Though tears be vain,
Our bursting hearts refute
The frigid philosophic strain,
That deepest woes are mute.
However stoic Reason preach,
Warm Nature will rebel,
And grief must strive to vent in speech
What words are vain to tell, Mary!
Not mourn for thee? It may be, Time,
That dries all human tears,
Will bid the flood of passion’s prime
Ebb with the healing years.
But still from out our hearts will well
One low, undying strain,
A plaint, as of the murmuring shell
That ever mourns the main, Mary!
Not mourn for thee? It may be, Earth
Will circle as of yore,
And leaf, and flower, and fruit, have birth
As bounteous as before;
But we shall mark a charm the less
In earth, and sea, and sky,
Missed from that perfect loveliness
They wore when thou wert by, Mary!
Not mourn for thee? Ah, lying grief!
The tears which will have way,
O’erburden’d Nature’s kind relief,
But seem to disobey.
It is but for ourselves we weep,
For our own loss repine;
Ah, God! unwittingly we keep
That dying charge of thine, Mary!
If, in that better world on high,
Where thou art dwelling now,
Thou yet canst bend a pitying eye
On us who weep below;
Oh, whisper, from that glorious sphere
The selfish love forgiven
That would have bound a Martyr here,
And grudged a Saint to Heaven, Mary!