University of Virginia Library


243

THE DYING LOVER.

Ah! soon, sweet maid, this heart of mine
Will give its beating o'er;
This weary aching head recline
Upon thy breast no more.
These hands can pluck no more for thee
The heather's purple bloom;
No more must I accompany
My lovely Mary home.
But, hush!—those sighs of fragrant breath,
The lovely crystal tear,
Can no impression make on Death,
Or keep me longer here.
Go, touch my sweet piano's strings,
And chant me into rest,
Till angels come, and on their wings
Convey me to the blest.
And mourn not as I soar away
To tune my harp on high;
Useless the tears upon my clay,
For I'm prepared to die.