ELYSIUM.
247
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep,
And bade man cease to weep!
Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove,
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!
This poem, written some years ago, is re-published from a volume now out of print; the train of thought it suggests appearing not unsuitable to the spirit of the present work.
THE END.
EDINBURGH:
PETER BROWN, PRINTER, LADY STAIR'S CLOSE.
