144
in memory of henry s. craig.
But there is one who in her girlhood's hour,
Gave up her sweet affections unto thee,
How she lies smitten like a withered flower,
When autumn winds have swept its native tree:
Her idol in the dust hath fallen low—
And the white wreath that twined amid her hair,
When at thy side a few short months ago
She stood a happy bride, so young, so fair,—
Is changed, for what? Alas! that pallid brow,
Wears the dark shrouding of the widowed now.
Gave up her sweet affections unto thee,
How she lies smitten like a withered flower,
When autumn winds have swept its native tree:
Her idol in the dust hath fallen low—
And the white wreath that twined amid her hair,
When at thy side a few short months ago
She stood a happy bride, so young, so fair,—
Is changed, for what? Alas! that pallid brow,
Wears the dark shrouding of the widowed now.
Oh! who shall speak her anguish! who may tell
The misery that clouds her sunniest years!
Who shall e'er fathom pure affections well,
Or dry the fountain of her bitter tears!
What unto her are spring's first fragrant flowers,
Or all the charms of summer's blushing day?
Will she not read the past, in such bright hours,
And hear thy voice in every wind's soft play?
Will not the smiling earth, the balmy air,
Whisper of moments blessed, when thou wert there?
The misery that clouds her sunniest years!
Who shall e'er fathom pure affections well,
Or dry the fountain of her bitter tears!
What unto her are spring's first fragrant flowers,
Or all the charms of summer's blushing day?
Will she not read the past, in such bright hours,
And hear thy voice in every wind's soft play?
Will not the smiling earth, the balmy air,
Whisper of moments blessed, when thou wert there?
