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?