Thou art gone, sweet love, to take thy rest,
Like a weary child on thy mother’s breast;
And thou hearest not, in thy calm deep sleep,
The voices of those that around thee weep.
Thou art gone where the weary find a home,
Where sickness and sorrow can never come;
A flower too fair for earthly skies,
Thou art gone to bloom in Paradise.
Thou art gone, and I hear not thy gladsome tone,
But my heart is still beating “alone, alone,”—
Yet often in dreams do I hear a strain
As of angels bearing thee back again.
Thou art gone, and the world may not miss thee long,
For thou didst not care for its idle throng;
But this fond bosom, in silent woe,
Shall carry thine image wherever I go.
Thou art gone, thou art gone! Shall we meet no more
By the sandy hill or the winding shore?
Or watch as the crested billows rise,
And the frightened curlew startling cries?
Thou art gone, but oh! in that land of peace
Where sin, and sorrow and anguish cease,
Where all is happy and bright and fair,
My own sweet love, may I meet thee there?