 | Poems |  |
156
SONNET.
[If I might chuse, where my tired limbs shall lie]
If I might chuse, where my tired limbs shall lieWhen my task here is done, the Oak's green crest
Shall rise above my grave—a little mound
Raised in some cheerful village-cemetery—
And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound,
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by—
In music—through the long soft twilight hours;—
And let the hand of her, whom I love best,
Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers,
In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest—
And should the robin, from some neighbouring tree,
Pour that dear song of her's—oh, softly tread,
For sure, if aught of Earth can soothe the Dead,
He still must love that pensive melody!
1815.
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