Verses on the Death of the same Lady

LIKE a poor ghost the night I seek;Its hollow winds repeat my sighs;The cold dews mingle on my cheekWith tears that wander from mine eyes.

The thorns that still my couch molest,Have robb'd these heavy eyes of sleep;But tho' deprived of tranquil rest,I here at last am free to weep.

Twelve times the moon, that rises redO'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine,Has fill'd her orb, since low was laidMy Harriet! that sweet form of thine!

While each sad month, as slow it past,Brought some new sorrow to deplore;Some grief more poignant than the last,But thou canst calm those griefs no more.

No more thy friendship sooths to restThis wearied spirit tempest-tost;The cares that weigh upon my breastAre doubly felt since thou art lost.

Bright visions of ideal graceThat the young poet's dreams inflame,Were not more lovely than thy face;Were not more perfect than thy frame.

Wit, that no sufferings could impair,Was thine, and thine those mental powersOf force to chase the fiends that tearFrom Fancy's hands her budding flowers.

O'er what, my angel friend, thou wert,Dejected Memory loves to mourn;Regretting still that tender heart,Now withering in a distant urn!

But ere that wood of shadowy pineTwelve times shall yon full orb behold,This sickening heart, that bleeds for thine,My Harriet!—may like thine be cold!