[EPIGRAM.]
EHEU FUGACES.
What Horace says is, Eheu fugaces Anni labuntur, Postume, Postume! Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me! Now, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, Taglionis and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos, Sighing I murmur, "O mihi præteritos!"
[SONG.]
'Tis sweet to think the pure ethereal being, Whose mortal form reposes with the dead, Still hovers round unseen, yet not unseeing, Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed!
She comes in dreams, a thing of light and lightness I hear her voice, in still small accents tell Of realms of bliss, and never-fading brightness, Where those who lov'd on earth, together dwell.
Ah! yet a while, blest shade, thy flight delaying, The kindred soul with mystic converse cheer; To her rapt gaze, in visions bland displaying The unearthly glories of thy happier sphere!
Yet, yet remain! till freed like thee, delighted, She spurns the thraldom of encumbering clay; Then as on earth, in tenderest love united, Together seek the realms of endless day!