1

The scene of death is closed! the mournful strains
Dissolve in dying languor on the ear;
Yet pity weeps, yet sympathy complains,
And dumb suspense awaits o'erwhelm'd with fear:

2

But the sad Muses with prophetic eye
At once the future and the past explore;
Their harps oblivion's influence can defy,
And waft the spirit to the eternal shore—

3

Then, O Palemon! if thy shade can hear
The voice of friendship still lament thy doom,
Yet to the sad oblations bend thine ear,
That rise in vocal incense o'er thy tomb.

4

From young Arion first the news received
With terror, pale unhappy Anna read;
With inconsolable distress she grieved,
And from her cheek the rose of beauty fled:

5

In vain, alas! the gentle virgin wept,
Corrosive anguish nipt her vital bloom;
O'er her soft frame diseases sternly crept,
And gave the lovely victim to the tomb.

6

A longer date of woe, the widow'd wife
Her lamentable lot afflicted bore;
Yet both were rescued from the chains of life
Before Arion reach'd his native shore!

7

The father unrelenting phrenzy stung,
Untaught in virtue's school distress to bear;
Severe remorse his tortured bosom wrung,
He languish'd, groan'd, and perish'd in despair.

8

Ye lost companions of distress, adieu!
Your toils, and pains, and dangers are no more;
The tempest now shall howl unheard by you,
While ocean smites in vain the trembling shore:

9

On you the blast, surcharged with rain and snow,
In winter's dismal nights no more shall beat;
Unfelt by you the vertic sun may glow,
And scorch the panting earth with baneful heat;

10

No more the joyful maid, with sprightly strain,
Shall wake the dance to give you welcome home;
Nor hopeless love impart undying pain,
When far from scenes of social joy you roam:

11

No more on yon wide watery waste you stray,
While hunger and disease your life consume—
While parching thirst, that burns without allay,
Forbids the blasted rose of health to bloom:

12

No more you feel contagion's mortal breath
That taints the realms with misery severe,
No more behold pale famine, scattering death,
With cruel ravage desolate the year.

13

The thundering drum, the trumpet's swelling strain,
Unheard, shall form the long embattled line:
Unheard, the deep foundations of the main
Shall tremble, when the hostile squadrons join.

14

Since grief, fatigue, and hazards still molest
The wandering vassals of the faithless deep;
Oh! happier now escaped to endless rest,
Than we who still survive to wake and weep.

15

What though no funeral pomp, no borrow'd tear,
Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall tell;
Nor weeping friends attend your sable bier,
Who sadly listen to the passing bell;

16

The tutor'd sigh, the vain parade of woe,
No real anguish to the soul impart;
And oft, alas! the tear that friends bestow
Belies the latent feelings of the heart.

17

What though no sculptured pile your name displays,
Like those who perish in their country's cause?
What though no epic Muse in living lays
Records your dreadful daring with applause?—

18

Full oft the nattering marble bids renown
With blazon'd trophies deck the spotted name;
And oft, too oft, the venal Muses crown
The slaves of vice with never-dying fame.

19

Yet shall remembrance from oblivion's veil
Relieve your scene, and sigh with grief sincere;
And soft compassion at your tragic tale
In silent tribute pay her kindred tear.