The bosom, once that heav’d with mine,
The throb of joy, or sigh of anguish,
When fancied ill, or fond delight,
Bade hope arise, or sudden languish.
XX
Sleeps silent, in the earthy grave.
No woe her angel-dreams disturbing;
Misfortune’s storm there cannot rave!
No passion’s power the rest perturbing.—
XXI
O be thy spirit ever near!
Attend my rude course to its closing;
Melvina!—still thy name is dear,
A thousand past delights disclosing.—
XXII
Thou wert to me, a kindred flower—
In nature’s garden, nurs’d together,—
We grew, till in a stormy hour
Thy vernal charms were doom’d to wither.
XXIII
But gladness still, shall mark the strain,
And hope shall point to brighter pleasure,
When our torn hearts shall meet again,
In hallow’d transport’s fullest measure.