“Cease, Memory, cease,” the friendless mourner cried,
“To probe the bosom too severely tried!
Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray
Through the bright fields of Fortune’s better day
When youthful Hope, the music of the mind,
Tuned all its charms, and Errington was kind!
“Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame,
In sighs to speak thy melancholy name?
I hear thy spirit wail in every storm!
In midnight shades I view thy passing form!