For oh! thy heart in holy mould was cast,
And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last.
Poor lost Alonzo! still I seem to hear
The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier!
When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drowned,
Thy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground!
Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,
But leave—oh! leave the light of Hope behind!
What though my wingèd hours of bliss have been,
Like angel-visits, few and far between,