And from thy yearning heart, Whose inmost core was warm with love for him, A gladness must depart, And those kind eyes with many tears be dim; While lonely memories, an unceasing train, Will turn the raptures of the past to pain.
Yet, mourner, while the day Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by, And hope forbids one ray To stream athwart the grief-discoloured sky, There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloom A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb.
'Tis from the better land: There, bathed in radiance that around them springs, Thy lov'd one's wings expand, As with the quoiring cherubim he sings; And all the glory of that God can see, Who said on earth to children, "Come to me."
Mother! thy child is blest; And though his presence may be lost to thee, And vacant leave thy breast, And missed a sweet load from thy parent knee— Though tones familiar from thine ear have passed, Thou'lt meet thy first-born with his Lord at last.
ELEGY ON THE EXILE AND DEATH OF OVID.
[Translated from the Latin of Angelus Politianus.]
BY FRANCIS ARDEN.—1821.
A Roman Bard lies on the Euxine's side, Barbarian earth a Roman poet holds, Barbarian earth, wash'd by cold Isther's tide, The poet of the tender loves infolds.
Excites not this, O Rome! a blush in thee, That to so great a nursling, harsh of mood, Reserv'st a bosom steel'd in cruelty, Surpassing the inhuman Getic brood?