Gone Is the vision of a Crown
Upon a bridal wreath!
Thy tear-dimmed eyes now gaze upon
The cruel work of death!
Weeping and mourning round thee sound,
From many a noble heart;
And with their Hoyal Family,
A Nation bears the smart.
Who can thee any comfort bring?
What may thy pain remove?
What power has kept thee from the fate
Of dying with thy love?
What human pleasures can henceforth
Thy weary life sustain?
Now that the sword has pierced thy soul,
Thy fondest hopes are slain.
No human feeling with thy woe;
No angel from on high —
The God, who caused thy tears to flow,
Alone thy tears can dry.
Lift, then, thine head; give God thine heart;
Before Heav’n’s King bend down;
From His Ownl hands accept thy lot:
Thou shalt not lack a Crown!