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VI.

September 3, 1850.

Here take thy stand: within this chamber lone
That looks upon the unfathomable blue
Of the blest ocean, take thy stand awhile:
Ah, mournful task! and watch yon fading face,
So lately lit with love and eager joy,
Now blank, but beautiful! Trace thou those lines
Which death hath spared; build up that noble brow,
Part the fair hair, and mimic with thy brush
That curl, whose very flexure tells of him.
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Precious thine art—God's gift—how often said,—
How never felt till now! This Autumn day
We leave thee here with him. Death, cease thy work!
Forget thy course, Decay! One favouring hour
Befriend our wish, how earnest, but how vain!
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