The Living Lost.

Matron! the children of whose love,     Each to his grave, in youth hath passed,     And now the mould is heaped above     The dearest and the last!     Bride! who dost wear the widow's veil     Before the wedding flowers are pale!     Ye deem the human heart endures     No deeper, bitterer grief than yours.     Yet there are pangs of keener wo,     Of which the sufferers never speak,     Nor to the world's cold pity show     The tears that scald the cheek,     Wrung from their eyelids by the shame     And guilt of those they shrink to name,     Whom once they loved with cheerful will,     And love, though fallen and branded, still.     Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead,     Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve;     And reverenced are the tears ye shed,     And honoured ye who grieve.     The praise of those who sleep in earth,     The pleasant memory of their worth,     The hope to meet when life is past,     Shall heal the tortured mind at last.     But ye, who for the living lost     That agony in secret bear,     Who shall with soothing words accost     The strength of your despair?     Grief for your sake is scorn for them     Whom ye lament and all condemn;     And o'er the world of spirits lies     A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.