XV.
We mourn—but not thy fate, departed One!
We pity—but the living, not the dead;
A cloud hangs o’er us[61]—“the bright day is done,”
And with a father’s hopes, a nation’s fled.
And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast,
Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought—
He, with thine early fond affections blest,
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught;
What but a desert to his eye, that earth,