“The love where death hath set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow.”
Byron.
I call thee bless’d!—though now the voice be fled
Which to thy soul brought dayspring with its tone,
And o’er the gentle eyes though dust be spread,
Eyes that ne’er look’d on thine but light was thrown
Far through thy breast:
And though the music of thy life be broken,