How oft have these dear kindreds
Bedew'd my path with tears,
And follow'd me, lamenting,
Thro' many gloomy years.
But now they weep no longer—
The last sad tears they shed,
Fell on that mournful evening
When they pronounced me DEAD!
They've buri'd me, tho' living,
And worn their sable weeds,
And down to blank oblivion
My memory recedes!
Dead!—would to God I were so!
Why should I wish to live?
A wretched, joyless creature,
And only spar'd to grieve!
The gloom of death surrounds me,
And chills me to the soul;
My tears by sorrow frozen,
Have long refus'd to roll.
In vain the pleasing changes
Of darkness and of day,
Of bloom and desolation,
Around my dungeon play.
There is no day in prison,
But ever-during night;
No pleasing moral verdure,
But everlasting blight.
The sun of joy has sunken
Behind affliction's cloud,
And wrapp'd the earth and heavens
Deep in an endless shroud.
Nine summers have roll'd o'er me,
As many springs have smil'd,
Nine autumns pour'd their treasure,
Nine winters whistled wild,
Since on me clos'd and bolted
Those ever-frowning gates,
And all my views of freedom
Have been thro' iron grates.