VERSES.
83
Twelve times the moon, that rises red
O'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine,
Has fill'd her orb, since low was laid
My Harriet! that sweet form of thine!
While each sad month, as slow it past,
Brought some new sorrow to deplore;
Some grief more poignant than the last,
But thou canst calm those griefs no more.
No more thy friendship sooths to rest
This wearied spirit tempest-tost;
The cares that weigh upon my breast
Are doubly felt since thou art lost.
