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The poetical works of John Nicholson

... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird
 

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ALAS! WHERE ARE THEY?
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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ALAS! WHERE ARE THEY?

“I betook myself to the repositories of the dead; and I exclaimed, in a plaintive tone, ‘Alas! where are they?’ and Echo replied, in the same plaintive tone, ‘Alas! where are they?’” —From the Arabic.

Soft! behold in the shade the dark abbey appearing;
Hark! yon sad plaintive voice,—it is Myra the fair;
The black robe of crape see the virgin is wearing,
And mourns her lost lover deposited there.
What a stillness! how solemn!—'tis awfully fine!
Night's queen throws the dark cloudy vale from her face.
The ivy leaves tremble, as faintly they shine,
And silence is now the sole lord of the place:
'Twas thus when fair Myra turned slow from the dead,
And cried out—“Alas! where are they?”
Echo heard the sad sound—through the cloisters she fled,
And whispered in sorrow—“Alas! where are they?”

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When the pale moon was shining upon the clear river,
Sad Laura went slowly to mourn o'er the dead:
Her husband, her son, and her daughter, for ever
Reposed where the branches of cypress were spread.
She leaned on the cold marble statue which stood
At the head of the tomb, till she fainted away!
She revived—the tears gushed from her eyes like a flood,
As her words burst in anguish—“Alas! where are they?”
'Twas silent around, and no answer was heard,
But Echo, which bore the sad question away,
Asked the grottoes, the groves, and each sorrowful bird,
In soft dying cadence—“Alas! where are they?”
To the place of the dead we may walk deeply mourning,
To sigh o'er our children, our lover, or sire,
But from the dark shades there is now no returning,—
Without them in sorrow we weep and retire.
We may gaze on the turf, or the fine-sculptured bust,
And sorrowful ask—“Where are they?”
If a faint mournful voice seems to rise from the dust,
'Tis but soft plaintive Echo that asks—“Where are they?”