METHINKS that if my spirit could behold Its earthly habitation void and chill, Whence all its time-encircled good and ill Expanded to eternity, 't would fold Its trembling pinions o'er the bosom cold, Recalling there the pulse's wonted thrill, And lean, perchance, to catch the echo still That erst in life the dream of passion told. How calm the dissolution! Could she spurn Her spouse, so late, and brother? Could she trace The strange familiar lineaments, and mark The doom of her own writing in the face, To find, alas! no more the vital spark, Nor breathe one sigh of pity to return? |