Written on the Death of Lorenzo D. Upham.
Lamented youth, thy spirit now has fled,
Thy youthful form in earth’s cold bosom lies.
Why art thou numbered with the early dead?
Who would not weep when one so lovely dies?
Why wert thou thus cut down in manhood’s bloom,
When life to thee was all a summer’s day,
Consigned unto the dark and silent tomb,
Nought but a lump of cold and lifeless clay?
And oft the mourner there doth go and weep,