Proclaim the day, the hour near,
O’er which, for aye, I vainly grieve!
No more the rapture now, that grew
Within our hearts, pale sleeping one!
While dwelling on that gorgeous view
Unfolded by the setting sun—
No more thy loved, thy lonely flowers
Will bend to kiss the gentle hand
Outstretched to train their heavenward bloom;
No more that angel form will stand