Classic Poem

O BLESSED be the tear that sadly roll'd
For me, my Mother! down thy sacred cheek;
That with a silent fervor did bespeak
A fonder tale than language ever told;
And pour'd such balm upon my spirit weak
And wounded, in a world so harsh and cold,
As that wherewith an angel would uphold
Those that astray heaven's holy guidance seek.
And tho' it pass'd away, and, soon as shed,
Seem'd ever lost to vanish from thine eye,
Yet only to the dearest store it fled
Of my remembrance, where it now doth lie,
Like a thrice precious relic of the dead,
The chiefest jewel of its treasury.

O BLESSED be the tear that sadly roll'd
For me, my Mother! down thy sacred cheek;
That with a silent fervor did bespeak
A fonder tale than language ever told;
And pour'd such balm upon my spirit weak
And wounded, in a world so harsh and cold,
As that wherewith an angel would uphold
Those that astray heaven's holy guidance seek.
And tho' it pass'd away, and, soon as shed,
Seem'd ever lost to vanish from thine eye,
Yet only to the dearest store it fled
Of my remembrance, where it now doth lie,
Like a thrice precious relic of the dead,
The chiefest jewel of its treasury.