He sleeps—but never shall those eyes unclose;
’Twas not my voice that lull’d him to repose;
Nor can it break his slumbers.—Dost thou mourn?
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn?
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know,
That o’er his grave my tears with Hamet’s flow?”
But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name,
When, swiftly rushing o’er her spirit, came
Each dark remembrance—by affliction’s power
Awhile effaced in that o’erwhelming hour,