Verses

TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND.

Dearer to me, thou pile of dust! Tho’ with the wild flow’r simply crown’d, Than the vast dome or beauteous bust, By genius form’d, by wit renown’d.

Wave, thou wild flow’r! for ever wave, O’er my lov’d relic of delight; My tears shall bathe her green-rob’d grave More than the dews of heav’n by night.

Methinks my Delia bids me go, Says, “Florio, dry that fruitless tear! Feed not a wild flow’r with thy woe, Thy long-lov’d Delia is not here.

“No drop of feeling from her eye Now starts to hear thy sorrows speak; And, did thy bosom know one joy, No smile would bloom upon her cheek.

“Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek, Whereon thy lip impress’d its red; Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak, Unnotic’d close amid the dead!”

True, true, too idly mourns this heart; Why, Mem’ry, dost thou paint the past? Why say you saw my Delia part, Still press’d, still lov’d her, to the last?

Then, thou wild flow’r, for ever wave! To thee this parting tear is given; The sigh I offer at her grave Shall reach my sainted love in heaven!

TIME AND THE LOVER.

Oh, Time! thy merits who can know? Thy real nature who discover? The absent lover calls thee slow,— “Too rapid,” says the happy lover.

With bloom thy cheeks are now refin’d, Now to thine eye the tear is given; At once too cruel and too kind,— A little hell, a little heaven.

Go then, thou charming myst’ry, go!— Yes, tho’ thou often dost amuse me, Tho’ many a joy to thee I owe, At once I thank thee and abuse thee.

A ROUNDELAY.

Wide thro’ the azure blue and bright Serenely floats the lamp of night; The sleeping waves forget to move, And silent is the cedar grove; Each breeze suspended seems to say— “Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!”

My Delia’s lids are clos’d in rest; Ah! were her pillow but my breast! Go, dreams! one gentle word impart, In whispers place me by her heart; While near her door I’ll fondly stray, And sooth her with my Roundelay.

But, ah! the Night draws in her shade, And glimm’ring stars reluctant fade: Yet sleep, my love! nor may’st thou feel The pangs which griefs like mine reveal: Adieu! for Morning’s on his way, And bids me close my Roundelay.