 | Poems |  |
199
AFTER METASTASIO
If seeking me she ask “What hap
Befel him? Whither is he fled,
My friend, my poor unhappy friend?”
Then softly answer “He is dead.”
Befel him? Whither is he fled,
My friend, my poor unhappy friend?”
Then softly answer “He is dead.”
Yet no! May never pang so keen
Be hers, and I the giver! Say,
If word be spoken, this alone,
“Weeping for you he went his way.”
Be hers, and I the giver! Say,
If word be spoken, this alone,
“Weeping for you he went his way.”
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