The lesser griefs that may be said, That breathe a thousand tender vows, Are but as servants in a house Where lies the master newly dead;
Who speak their feeling as it is, And weep the fulness from the mind: "It will be hard," they say, "to find Another service such as this."
My lighter moods are like to these, That out of words a comfort win; But there are other griefs within, And tears that at their fountain freeze;
For by the hearth the children sit Cold in that atmosphere of Death, And scarce endure to draw the breath, Or like to noiseless phantoms flit;
But open converse is there none, So much the vital spirits sink To see the vacant chair, and think, "How good! how kind! and he is gone."