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fragment.
Complaint, or sigh, breathes not upon her lips,
Her life is one dark, fatal, deep eclipse.
Lead her to the green grave where ye have laid
The creature that ye mourn;—let it be said,
"Here love, and youth, and beauty, are at rest!"
She only sadly murmurs, " Blest!—most blest!"
And turns from gazing, lest her misery
Should make her sin, and pray to Heaven to die.
Her life is one dark, fatal, deep eclipse.
Lead her to the green grave where ye have laid
The creature that ye mourn;—let it be said,
"Here love, and youth, and beauty, are at rest!"
She only sadly murmurs, " Blest!—most blest!"
And turns from gazing, lest her misery
Should make her sin, and pray to Heaven to die.
FRAGMENT.
From an epistle written when the thermometer stood at 98° in the shade.
*****
Oh! for the temperate airs that blow
Upon that darling of the sea,
Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow,
For three days hold supremacy;
But ever-varying skies contend
The blessings of all climes to lend,
To make that tiny, wave-rocked isle,
In never-fading beauty smile.
Oh! for the temperate airs that blow
Upon that darling of the sea,
Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow,
For three days hold supremacy;
But ever-varying skies contend
The blessings of all climes to lend,
To make that tiny, wave-rocked isle,
In never-fading beauty smile.
