Bitter are the tear-drops blinding,

Bitter, useless toil and pain,Bitterest of all the finding That my dream was false and vain!

A VISION.

GLOOMY and black are the cypress-trees,

Drearily waileth the chill night breeze.

The long grass waveth, the tombs are white,

And the black clouds flit o'er the chill moonlight.

Silent is all save the dropping rain,

When slowly there cometh a mourning train ;

The lone churchyard is dark and dim,

And the mourners raise a funeral hymn.

"Open, dark grave, and take her;

Though we have loved her so,
Yet we must now forsake her,
Love will no more awake her:
(O bitter woe!)

Open thine arms and take her
To rest below!

"Vain is our mournful weeping, Her gentle life is o'er; Only the worm is creeping,