XVII.
And such his lot whom thou hast loved and left,
Spirit! thus early to thy home recall’d!
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft,
A warrior’s heart, which danger ne’er appall’d.
Years may pass on—and, as they roll along,
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend;
And he once more, with life’s unheeding throng,
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend;
Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory’s temple shrined.