Loved, lost one, fare thee well—too harsh the doom That called thee thus in opening life away; Tears fall for thee; and at thy early tomb I come at each return of this blest day, When evening hovers near, with solemn gloom, The pious debt of sorrowing thought to pay, For thee, blest spirit, whose loved form alone Here mouldering sleeps, beneath this simple stone.
But memory claims thee still; and slumber brings Thy form before me as in life it came; Affection conquers death, and fondly clings Unto the past, and thee, and thy loved name; And hours glide swiftly by on noiseless wings, While sad discourses of thy loss I frame, With her the friend of thy most tranquil years, Who mourns for thee with grief too deep for tears. Sunday Evening.
SONG.
BY THEODORE S. FAY.
A careless, simple bird, one day Flutt'ring in Flora's bowers, Fell in a cruel trap, which lay All hid among the flowers, Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers.
The spring was closed; poor, silly soul, He knew not what to do, Till, squeezing through a tiny hole, At length away he flew, Unhurt—at length away he flew.
And now from every fond regret And idle anguish free, He, singing, says, "You need not set Another trap for me, False girl! another trap for me."