224
DIRGE:
WRITTEN NOVEMBER 1808.
Pure spirit! O where art thou now!
O whisper to my soul!
O let some soothing thought of thee,
This bitter grief controul!
’Tis not for thee the tears I shed,
Thy sufferings now are o'er;
The sea is calm, the tempest past,
On that eternal shore.
No more the storms that wrecked thy peace
Shall tear that gentle breast;
Nor Summer's rage, nor Winter's cold,
Thy poor, poor frame molest.
