Wild shrieks the blast of heaven, round
The grave, where all her beauties wither;
The Yew-tree moans in solemn sound,
When gently stirs the ambient æther.
XIV
The cold sod wraps her lovely form,
That rapture to my soul imparted;
She lived in beauty! but the storm
In early morn, life’s current thwarted.
XVI
Where once the laughing, mirthful eye,
With joy’s bright beam was wont to glisten;
When time on pinions fleet went by,
And we to hope’s fond tale would listen:
XVII
Or when the tear-drop started there,—
The sympathetic gem of feeling,—
And o’er that face so passing fair
Soft pity’s sorrowing look was stealing.
XVIII
The icy worm his revel keeps,
And there, his form is dully shining,
Arround that lovely forehead creeps,
Or o’er her faded cheek is twining.