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There let me sleep, forgotten, in the clay,
When death shall shut these weary, aching


Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,

Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.


View yon pale flower surcharg'd with dew,
That bends its lovely head to earth,

And seems, in Fancy's eye, to woo
The sod beneath, that gave it birth.

Its stem, which now can scarce sustain
The drops that on its blossoms weigh,
Shall soon its wonted strength regain,
Beneath the sun's reviving ray.

But thou, lost maid, whose fading frame
So slowly verges to the tomb,
And seems, in silent woe, to claim

A refuge in its darksome womb;

What sun shall rise thy griefs to chear,
Or o'er thy cloud of sorrow break?
What kindly warmth shall dry the tear
That falls adown thy pallid cheek?

What though thy words will not unfold

The cause, that prompts thy frequent sigh, Too well, alas! those looks have told

That treacherous Love has bid thee die.

Oh yes, that power that gave thee breath Shall view thy woes with pitying eye; Shall bid each sorrow cease in death,

And call thee to thy kindred sky.


How vain the wish of long-continuing joy,

Form'd on the transient pleasures of a day! How weak, that man should serious toil employ, To rest his thoughts on clouds which fleet away!

As well from hence he may attempt to rise
On eddying winds aloft, and proudly dare
To bid the fiery meteor in the skies

Arrest its motion through the liquid aiṛ.

Scarce hath swift Time his laughing circle drawn,
gay delusive years, to twenty-one,
Ere all the light-blown bubbles of our dawn
Vanish, like dew drops from the morning sun.

In manhood's course, how artfully are thrown Succeeding lures of life, from stage to stage! More firm in prospect, but, when truly known, Frail as the playthings of our infant age!

Of human ties that bind us most to earth,
However various, 'tis by all agreed,
If sunk with sadness, or if cheer'd by mirth,

In either period friendship takes the lead.

Happy their lot, whose ever-seeking minds
In this vain world can gain a small supply!
Supremely so the man who hourly finds,

At home, its radiance beam from ev'ry eye!

Thus my past life hath prov'd and yet may prove Save that my Harriet is no longer giv'n!

Her soul of frienship and her looks of love, Fled to their source, have found a home in heay'n.

Alas! reflection now alternate guides

The mind, infeebled, to each different theme: As bury'd joy, or living hope presides,

Till balmy slumbers give this lenient dream :

Methinks I see, with sympathetic woe,

Pale sorrow moving from that hallow'd tomb, In sighs as mild as Summer zephyrs blow

To breathe these accents thro' the midnight gloom :

Mourner, approach! yon moon will light thy


O'er fun ral hillocks in the cypress glade; These flowing eyes shall catch her waning ray, And show the flow'ry turf where Harriet's laid!

Eager I haste, with dying voice, to speak
This one memorial, as a truth sincere:

Her life ne'er caus'd a blush upon her cheek,
Nor drew, till gone, from this fond heart a tear.

When Faith, descending on a seraph's wing, Points out my progress to a happier shore; There the bright saint, she said, can welcome bring,

And hail with rapture, "we shall part no more."


What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?

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