Addressed to Her Husband, Since General Vyse

’Tis gloom, and silence all!—where late so gay The strains of pleasure in each gale were borne; Where white-robed Truth had fix’d her stedfast sway, And love’s bright florets deck’d the rising morn. How constantly, beneath yon shade, The little, rosy Comforts play’d! While to the warblings of the plumy choir Responsive transport struck her golden lyre!— Thou dashing stream, swift hurrying down the glade, Oft has thy clear and sparkling wave convey’d The balmy whispers tender thoughts inspire, As shed the bridal star its gay enamour’d fire.

Now through the vale a sullen stillness reigns, The shades embrown’d by woe, Frown o’er the house of death!—the blasted plains No more with beauty glow! Or is it Sorrow’s misty shower That dims the hue of every flower, Draws from the lake the livid gleam, And hears the ominous raven scream?— Round ANNA’s bower the damps of horror rise, And shroud the splendours of the azure skies, Since she, who brighten’d summer’s charms, Is torn in life’s gay bloom, From young RICARDO’s widow’d arms, The victim of the tomb. To that loved bower she shall no more return! Bend your dark tops, ye pines, and guard her sacred urn!

Ah! gentle pair, your bliss was too refined, Too subtly sweet, too exquisite to last; For ne’er shall man unfading pleasures find, Where Grief, and Pain, may breathe the withering blast. How dire the ravage in that hour When sunk, beneath their baleful power, Each joy, bright springing from congenial taste, From warm impassion’d Love, from Friendship chaste; From Plenty, summon’d by approving Fate, To glide serenely through your open gate; From all that softens life, from all that cheers, And nurses Eden’s rose in this chill vale of tears.

Rash man was made to mourn:—exempt alone Who transport ne’er have felt; Whose hearts, girt round by Dulness’ leaden zone, Nor Love, nor Pity melt; On whose dead calm of vacant hours Nor Rapture beams, nor Anguish lours.— Lone mourner o’er thy ANNA’s grave, Since Youth and Love were weak to save, Thy fruitless sorrows with this truth controul, Soft whispering to thy fond, thy faithful soul, That all the woes, which shroud thy noon-tide rays, Bend thee to earth, and lay thy prospects waste; Are borne for her, whose fair, unclouded days Of wintry storm had never felt the blast; The large arrears of grief she must have paid, Had she not early sunk in death’s eternal shade.

O! think, had fell disease assaulted thee, The rushing fever, or the slow decline, These sufferings had been hers—this agony Wrung her mild bosom, that now tortures thine; And shall not her far happier doom Gild, with its seraph rays, thy gloom? Since sun-eyed Faith empowers thee to pervade The dreary grave’s incumbent shade; Lift its dark curtains from the regions bright, And see thy love ascend her throne of light, Where bliss, that ne’er shall end, and ne’er can cloy, Succeeds your nuptial year of seldom equall’d joy.