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LAMENT OF MORIAN SHEHONE FOR MISS MARY BOURKE, by             Poem Explanation        
First Line: There's darkness in thy dwelling-place and silence reigns above
Last Line: "oh, am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?' / thus sinks in silence the lament of morian

'THERE'S darkness in thy dwelling-place and silence reigns above,
And Mary's voice is heard no more, like the soft voice of love,
Yes! thou art gone, my Mary dear! and Morian Shehone
Is left to sing his song of woe, and wail for thee alone.
Oh snow-white were thy virtues! -- the beautiful, young,
The old with pleasure bent to hear the music of thy tongue:
The young with rapture gazed on thee, and their hearts in love were bound,
For thou wast brighter than the sun that sheds its light around.
My soul is dark, O Mary dear! thy sun of beauty's set;
The sorrowful are dumb for thee -- the grieved their tears forget;
And I am left to pour my woe above thy grave alone;
For dear wert thou to the fond heart of Morian Shehone.

'Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed,
But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed;
Not so with my heart's faithful love -- the dark grave cannot hide
From Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.
Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill winds blow --
'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.
Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not garments rare?
Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?
Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy,
Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?
Oh, am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?
Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!

'Sweet were thy looks and sweet thy smiles, and kind wast thou to all;
The withering scowl of envy on thy fortunes dared not fall;
For thee thy friends lament and mourn, and never cease to weep --
Oh, that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep!
Oh, that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp!
Oh, that the cold damp hand of Death could loose his iron grasp!
Yet, when the valley's daughters meet beneath the tall elm tree,
And talk of Mary as a dream that never more shall be,
Then may thy spirit float around, like music in the air,
And pour upon their virgin souls a blessing and a prayer.
Oh, am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?'
Thus sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone.

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