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Thy indistinct expressions seem
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright!
For could I view nor them nor thee
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
And still to love, though prest with ill;
But ah! by constant heed I know,
And should my future lot be cast
Now Spring returns, but not to me returns
And all the joys of life with health have flown.
Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind,
And count the silent moments as they pass:
The wiriged moments, whose unstaying speed
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
Oft morning dreams, presage approaching fate,
I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe,
Farewell, ye blooming fields, ye cheerful plains! Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where melancholy with still silence reigns,
And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.
There let me wander at the close of eve,
When sleep sits dewy on the lab'rer's eyes, The world and all its busy follies leave,
And talk with wisdom, where my Daphnis liesy
There let me sleep, forgotten, in the clay,
Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,
Till the long night is gone, and the last mors arise.
ON A LADY DYING OF A CONSUMPTION.
View yon pale flower surcharg'd with dew,
Its stem, which now can scarce sustain
But thou, lost maid, whose fading frame
A refuge in its darksome womb;
What sun shall rise thy griefs to chear,
What though thy words will not unfold
That treacherous Love has bid thee die.
Oh yes, that power that gave thee breath
Shall bid each sorrow cease in death,