 | [Poems by Hoffman in] Charles Fenno Hoffman |  |
292
ON THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND
Why pause to gaze upon this spot?
Seek'st thou in idle mood the name
Of him whose form is laid to rot
Beneath this turfen frame?
Seek'st thou in idle mood the name
Of him whose form is laid to rot
Beneath this turfen frame?
Or does the weed which rankly waves
Above this mound attract thine eye?
It blooms as fresh o'er other graves,
Why not to them pass by?
Above this mound attract thine eye?
It blooms as fresh o'er other graves,
Why not to them pass by?
If thou art one whose morbid mind,
O'er scenes like this delights to brood,
To waste thy grief upon the wind,
On all thy tearful mood.
O'er scenes like this delights to brood,
To waste thy grief upon the wind,
On all thy tearful mood.
The mouldering form that slumbers here,
If conscious of thy lavished sighs,
Would hardly prize the random tear,
That falls from Strangers eyes.
If conscious of thy lavished sighs,
Would hardly prize the random tear,
That falls from Strangers eyes.
The pulse of life that here was stilled,
With human passion ne'er beat high;
No restless dreams this bosom filled,
With vain ambitious sigh.
With human passion ne'er beat high;
No restless dreams this bosom filled,
With vain ambitious sigh.
The heart that here at last was hushed,
With faithful Friendship throb'd alone;
It ne'er with shame his features flushed—
Perchance unlike thine own.
With faithful Friendship throb'd alone;
It ne'er with shame his features flushed—
Perchance unlike thine own.
A dog—nay, check that scornful smile,
A Dog's remains are buried here—
The only friend whom worldly guile,
Or rivalry, or woman's wile,
Cannot make less sincere.
A Dog's remains are buried here—
The only friend whom worldly guile,
Or rivalry, or woman's wile,
Cannot make less sincere.
Caspar
| [Poems by Hoffman in] Charles Fenno Hoffman | |