Oh, my Phronema! how thy yellow hair
Was fragrant, when, by looks alone carest,
I felt it, wafted by the pitying air,
Float o'er my lips, and touch my fervid breast!

How my least word lent colour to thy cheek!
And how thy gentle form would heave and swell,
As if the love thy heart contain'd, would break
That warm pure shrine where nature bade it dwell.

We parted; years are past, andthou art dead;
Never, Phronema, can I see thee more!
One little ringlet of thy graceful head
Lies next my heart; 'tis all I may adore.

Torn from thy sight, to save a life of gloom,
Hopes unaccomplish'd, warmest wishes crost —
How can I longer bear my weary doom?
Alas! what have I gain'd for all I lost?