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For works with similar titles, see Requiem.

Literary Gazette, 24th November, 1821, Page 749

Original Poetry


Oh! cold are thy slumbers, and low is thy grave,
Above it one cypress shall mournfully wave;
No flowers shall flourish around thy death shrine,—
Their bloom would but mock such a dark sleep as thine.
The pale stone overhead, the sod of dank green,
Will be sad as the path of thy life-time has been.

Thy wild harp shall hang on a willow beside,
O'er its chords like a spirit the night wind shall glide
And pour forth thy dirge; that harp wont to be
The charm of the wilderness thrilling for thee:
It will soothe thee mid sadness and coldness no more,
Its strings will grow damp, and its music be o'er.

As a vase of sweet flowers with summer dews bright,
Thy heart was all tenderness, beauty, and light,
But the sweet vase was broken, the flowers decay'd,
And, like them, thy feelings were crush'd and betray'd;
And the glimpses of song, that had flashed o'er thy lyre,
But prey'd on the heart that had cherish'd their fire.

Thy day-star was even in dawning o'ercast,
Thy song in the moment of breathing was past,
There is but one heart to lament o'er thy doom,
There is but one check will for thee lose its bloom:
That cheek will grow pale as thy funeral stone,
That heart will soon break, it was truly thine own. [1]

  1. Signature given after later poem