HARK! how the gale, in mournful notes and stern, Sighs thro' yon grove of aged oaks, that wave (While down these solitary walks I turn) Their mingled branches o'er yon lonely grave! Poor soul! the dawning of thy life was dim; Frown'd the dark clouds upon thy natal day; Soon rose thy cup of sorrow to the brim, And hope itself but shed a doubtful ray. That hope had fled, and all within was gloom; That hope had fled -- thy woe to phrenzy grew; For thou, wed to misery from the womb -- Scarce one bright scene thy night of darkness knew! Oft when the moon-beam on the cold bank sleeps, Where 'neath the dewy turf thy form is laid, In silent woe thy wretched mother weeps, By this lone tomb, and by this oak-tree's shade. 'Oh! softly tread: in death he slumbers here; 'T is here,' she cries, 'within his narrow cell!' -- The bitter sob, the wildly-starting tear, The quivering lip, proclaim the rest too well! |