An Elegy

Where shall I rest my hapless head, Heavy with grief? how plenteously Must I the briny torrents shed— Alack and woe is me!

Our chief is gone, at last, at last, The safeguard of our nation he; The glory of our age is past— Alack and woe is me!

Unto the swords, O father dear, Of foemen thirsting horribly For blood, why leave thy children here? Alack and woe is me!

Of justice is the fountain dried, And mute the law’s high symphony; Fallen is Europa’s brightest pride— Alack and woe is me.

There is a change of times and things That passeth on eternally. Decreed by Him, the King of Kings— ’Tis right—but woe is me!

Now is the earth with violets gay, And flowers manifold to see; Now frozen ’neath the winter’s sway— How brief the roses be!

Now shews the sun his head of gold With a superior brilliancy; Now hides as were he dead and cold— Alack and woe is me.

O father! I will lave thy tomb With tear-drops well becoming me; Thy tomb with flowery herbs perfume— How brief the roses be!