Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years,
As embers in a burial-urn compress’d;
He might not be thy guest!
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o’er his path, and whisper’d “Liberty!”
Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay,
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before the mother lay,