"—O, tranquil earth and heaven—but their repose, What influence hath it on the mourner there ! Her eye is fix’d in terrible despair, Her lip is white with pain, and, spectre-like, Her shape is worn with famine—on her arm Rests a dead child—she does not weep for it. Two more are at her side, she’d weep for them, But that she is too desperate to weep:"