107
DIRGE.
Oh, calm be thy slumbers!
The cypress shall wave,
The harp pour its numbers
Of grief o'er thy grave.
I'll scatter each blossom
Upon thy cold stone:
The rose's white bosom,
Pure, fair, as thine own;
The violet glowing,
Blue, like to thine eyes;
The jessamine, throwing
Its sweets, like thy sighs.
