And can it be true, that thy pure happy spirit
Hath fled from these regions of darkness and death,
In the beautiful mansions of light to inherit
The glorious palm and the amaranth wreath ?

Oh ! where are the roses-the lilies-the graces-
That to every beholder could passion impart ?-
Decay and destruction are filling their places,
And on thy soft bosom hath Death fix'd his dart.

Oh ! where is the hand never backward in bringing
Relief to the wretch - to the traveller rest ? -
Perhaps round those fingers the earth-worm is clinging,
And Corruption has fix'd her abode on that breast.

Oh ! where are the chords of that heart, whose soft numbers
Re-echoed to Friendship and Pity alone ? -
The hand of Oblivion is spreading her slumbers
O'er their liveliest note, and their loveliest tone.

The oak that upon the bleak mountain is growing,
The storm in its rudeness the firmer may bind ;
But the primrose beneath in the lowly vale blowing
Cannot brook the rough blast and the tempest unkind.

So fared it with thee, - for the rest could recover,
Again in new rigour and health to arise ;-
But the bolt of the Tyrant, in passing them over,
Marked out thy fair form for its beautiful prize.

Farewell to thy spirit! - 'tis fled to its heaven,
As flew the fair dove to the cherishing ark :
The storms of the world from its refuge have driven
The diamond,-'tis fled-and the casket is dark.