 | Poems |  |
241
ELEGY.
Long, long is thy night, cold and dreary thy bed,
Too early the chosen and claimed one of death;
The crown of young beauty hath fallen from thy head,
And music and laughter have passed from thy breath.
Too early the chosen and claimed one of death;
The crown of young beauty hath fallen from thy head,
And music and laughter have passed from thy breath.
I bring thee a beauteous and freshly-blown flower;
Its bells like thy soft brows are tenderly pale;
It hath trembled 'neath morning's unsullying shower,
—'Tis the lily, the unwaning moon of the vale!
Its bells like thy soft brows are tenderly pale;
It hath trembled 'neath morning's unsullying shower,
—'Tis the lily, the unwaning moon of the vale!
I bring thee thy broken, thy own favourite lute,
O'er which thou wert wont so to warble and weep,
While it answered with sounds that for ever are mute,
And buried, like thee, in a fathomless sleep!
O'er which thou wert wont so to warble and weep,
While it answered with sounds that for ever are mute,
And buried, like thee, in a fathomless sleep!
242
Yet if the night-warbler here poureth his strain,
Perchance its few chords may yet thrill to the sound,
And solemnly, mournfully grieve and complain—
But too softly to startle the echoes around!
Perchance its few chords may yet thrill to the sound,
And solemnly, mournfully grieve and complain—
But too softly to startle the echoes around!
O, nightingale! now from sad service absolved,
Since the poet's high instincts have freed thee from gloom,
Still, still let thy strain, all inwreathed and involved,
Be one passion of sorrows while breathed o'er this tomb!
Since the poet's high instincts have freed thee from gloom,
Still, still let thy strain, all inwreathed and involved,
Be one passion of sorrows while breathed o'er this tomb!
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