DIRGE. Air—“My
time, O ye muses.” * * * * * * * * RESPONSIVE ye woods wing your
echoes along, Till
nature, all sad, weeping, listen my song, Till
flocks cease their bleeting, and herds cease to low, And
the clear winding rivulet scarce seems to flow. For
fair was the
flower that once gladden’d our plains, Sweet
rose-bud of virtue, ador’d by our swains, But
fate, like a blast from the chill wintry wave, Has laid my sweet flower in yon cold silent grave. Her
warm feeling breast did with sympathy glow, In
innocence pure as the new mountain-snow; Her
face was more fair than the mild apple-bloom; Her
voice sweet as hope whisp’ring pleasures to come. O
Mary, my love! ’Tis
thy William who calls—burst the bands of thy urn!
Together
we’ll wander—poor wretch how I rave! My
Mary lies low in the lone silent grave. Yon
tall leafy planes throw a deep solemn shade O'er
the dear holy spot where my Mary is laid, Lest
the light wanton sun-beams obtrude on the gloom That
lorn-love and friendship have wove round her tomb: Still
there let the mild tears of nature remain, Till
calm dewy ev’ning weep o'er her again; There
oft I will wander—no boon now I crave, But to weep life away o'er her dark silent grave. |