Now silent sorrow weeping roves Thro walks the favorite spirit blest, And wan despair in horror loves To woo the nightdews to her breast; Yet hears in every passing gale The knell of death resound, and tell its piteous tale. No more a father's guardian hand Leads the young mind to wisdom's court; No more his voice in accents bland Suspends the listening infant's sport; For, lost to nature's tenderest ties, Inurned in dust, the parent sleeps: In vain invoked with bursting sighs, He hears not, when the orphan weeps. Yet, incense pure! the tears of grief Shall soothe the wounded heart, and flow in sweet relief. Dark in the memory of my years Shall float the morn, whose lowering eye Beheld those cheeks suffused with tears, Whose lustre foils the dawning sky; Still, as returning seasons roll, When Sirius pours his poisoned blaze, The hymn of death shall charm my soul, The hymn, that chaunts in mournful praise, And oft to THEE, departed SHADE, The hallowed requiem rise, in awful reverence paid. ELLEN's ADIEU. SAY, HENRY, when thou'rt far away, Say, wilt thou greet with tearful eye? When wealth and fame and beauty smile, And artless youth with witching grace, And sportive wit, and laughing wile, Shall fascinate with dimpled face: Will ELLEN's form e'er then intrude? No charm it has, no pleasing art; Her only boast is rectitude, Her only wealth a spotless heart. Her morn of life was blithe and gay, On wings of hope her childhood flew ; Soon sorrow gloomed her brightest day, And tears of early anguish drew. Thy well formed mind could yet impart, And teach her soul the wish to live ; She gave to thee a broken heart, 'Twas all sad ELLEN had to give. And now thou fliest to eastern beams, To court the wealth, that mocks thee here, Gay fancy lends her golden dreams, Ambition wipes the starting tear. ELLEN, would say, "ah doubt the scheme, "Nor anxious grasp each gilded toy; "Can gold lend friendship's eye one gleam, "Or give the mind one lasting joy?" Ah no, she breathes the fervent prayer, In every scene thou'rt still her care; Yet, she will oft at night's still noon, And bless the beam, that smiles on thee: And oft her minstrel's absence tell, And hang her harp on willow high; Fond memory shall each care dispel, And check the boding, anxious sigh. ON DEATH. IN musing mood, to care a prey, I shuddering mark the dreary way, Then why, my heart, that wishful sigh? Why round some well loved form entwine? There, only there, each woe will fly; There, only there, can bliss be thine. |