 | Rhapsodies |  |
91
ON THE DEATH OF A FEMALE FRIEND,
Well known in the literary world.
Hark! on the bosom of the wind I hear
The sad vibration of the distant bell;
It claims the tribute of a feeling tear,
'Tis Mary's, lovely Mary's, passing knell.
The sad vibration of the distant bell;
It claims the tribute of a feeling tear,
'Tis Mary's, lovely Mary's, passing knell.
If rose was ever blooming, lily fair,
Or spring's mild zephyrs breath'd perfumes around;
If violet e'er display'd its colour rare,
United these were all in Mary found.
Or spring's mild zephyrs breath'd perfumes around;
If violet e'er display'd its colour rare,
United these were all in Mary found.
Her cheek the rose and lily's tinge combin'd;
Her breath was perfum'd as sweet-scented May;
Her eyes the violet's azure tinge refin'd,
From whence beam'd tenderness and beauty's ray.
Her breath was perfum'd as sweet-scented May;
Her eyes the violet's azure tinge refin'd,
From whence beam'd tenderness and beauty's ray.
If in the spiral poplar grace we view,
More graceful was the form of her I weep;
If ever yet the sage of wisdom knew,
Such were her powers now wrapp'd in death's drear sleep.
More graceful was the form of her I weep;
If ever yet the sage of wisdom knew,
Such were her powers now wrapp'd in death's drear sleep.
92
But these perfections we behold no more;
The zephyr's perfume is for ever fled;
The poplar's grace, the sage's golden store,
Are wither'd all—for Mary now is dead.
The zephyr's perfume is for ever fled;
The poplar's grace, the sage's golden store,
Are wither'd all—for Mary now is dead.
Flow on, my sorrow, give my sighs full vent,
Let gushing anguish speak my mental grief;
Such agony, within the bosom pent,
Should thus in liquid drops find some relief.
Let gushing anguish speak my mental grief;
Such agony, within the bosom pent,
Should thus in liquid drops find some relief.
Farewell, sweet Mary! envy strives in vain;
The gen'rous weep thy failings with thy doom;
Thy mind's perfections cancel every stain,
Thy merits shall record thee in the tomb.
The gen'rous weep thy failings with thy doom;
Thy mind's perfections cancel every stain,
Thy merits shall record thee in the tomb.
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