72
POEMS.
God knows, could tears recall the Saint to life,
Make fell disease her bloom and strength restore,
Give the fond Husband back his faultless Wife,
And bid her mourning children mourn no more,
Make fell disease her bloom and strength restore,
Give the fond Husband back his faultless Wife,
And bid her mourning children mourn no more,
To weep should be my study, pleasure, pride!
From sounds of woe my lips should never rest;
I'd woo pale Sorrow as the loveliest Bride,
And kiss the hand, with which She stabbed my breast:
From sounds of woe my lips should never rest;
I'd woo pale Sorrow as the loveliest Bride,
And kiss the hand, with which She stabbed my breast:
In charnel-vaults, with bones I'd form my bed,
There waste the sleepless night and joyless day,
Rest on that Dear-one's tomb my aching head,
And wear with ceaseless tears the stone away!
There waste the sleepless night and joyless day,
Rest on that Dear-one's tomb my aching head,
And wear with ceaseless tears the stone away!
Vain wishes, vain regrets! Her thread of days
Is spun; The die is cast, the shaft is sped:
That name, which none e'er mentioned but with praise,
Swells the dark records of the virtuous dead:
Is spun; The die is cast, the shaft is sped:
That name, which none e'er mentioned but with praise,
Swells the dark records of the virtuous dead:
