Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh, Time! I ask thee not to steal away
My present grief—I wish not to be gay;
Forgetfulness alone can cure regret,
And whilst I live, I never can forget.

Yes, tears will flow, philosophy in vain
May strive to teach forgetfulness of pain;
We hear the cold advice which strangers give,
Mere words—which all bestow—and none receive.

We listen while they speak,—when they are gone
The heart still aches, and tears will still flow on.
Each book, each plant, each trifle, we behold,
Is hallowed by the touch of hands now cold.

Yet leave these relics—seek in change of scene
A potent spell to make your griefs less keen.
Quit all your lost friend valued, and remove
Each trifle that reminds you of his love.
Roam o'er the world, new friends, new joys, to find,
Laugh and be gay—but first leave thought behind.

If change avails not, seek employment then,
Your books, your walks, your pencil, or your pen:
You read—and seek the volumes of his choice—
Where is that one who listened to your voice?
You walk—but whilst you view each lovely scene
Where is the arm on which you used to lean?
You draw—but still those scenes your choice must be,
Which e'en in darkness you distinctly see.
You write—but now the subject of your lay,
Is friendship lost, and pleasure pass'd away.

Some may pass on through life, and quickly find
New ties replacing those they leave behind:
One they called friend may sink into the tomb,
And only cause a momentary gloom;
Awhile they miss in every gay pursuit
The voice once lively, now for ever mute;
Or in the scenes where they have often met,
They deign to breathe a word of cold regret;
But soon their transient, heartless sorrow ends,
They seek for other joys with other friends.

It is an easy task, for hearts at rest,
To talk of brighter days to the distressed;
To shew us joys the future may reveal,
And speak of that composure which they feel.
They may remind us, tears and sighs are vain—
Alas! can hopelessness diminish pain?

They say, when God afflicts us, it is fit
That men should suffer meekly, and submit.
Yes, we submit, and place our trust alone
In one last hope—to go where they are gone.
We know his dispensations must be borne,
We bow to his behest,—yet still we mourn.
Religion teaches us to hope for bliss—
But in another region—not in this.

When I at last beheld his coffin thrust
Into its narrow dwelling—dust to dust,
When motionless I stood upon the brink
Of his cold grave and wept, I could not think
That the mind's purity would pass away,
And, like the body, totally decay:
No—that pure spirit which was wont to shed
A charm o'er all he did, and all he said;
That excellence which made him dear to me,
Was formed for life and immortality.
The mortal part may seek its loathsome prison,
The soul—the part of him we loved, is risen,
Gone—where the pure in heart again shall meet;
Ah, yes!—our prospect would be incomplete,
Did we not hope to share the perfect bliss
Of that bright world, with friends so dear in this,
And recognize those forms in realms above,
Who claimed on earth our fondest, purest love.