These golden Buttercups are April's seal,- These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel, Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom, Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours: A wight once made a dial of their bloom, - So may thy life be measur'd out by flow'rs! THE FORSAKEN. THE dead are in their silent graves, And the dew is cold above, And the living weep and sigh, Over dust that once was love. Once I only wept the dead, But now the living cause my pain: How couldst thou steal me from my tears, To leave me to my tears again? My Mother rests beneath the sod, Her rest is calm and very deep : I wish'd that she could see our loves, But now I gladden in her sleep. Last night unbound my raven locks, But thou art chang'd, — and so are they! The useless lock I gave thee once, To gaze upon and think of me, Was ta'en with smiles, but this was torn In sorrow that I send to thee! ODE TO MELANCHOLY, COME, let us set our careful breasts, True honour's dearth, affection's death, Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn, With all the piteous tales that tears Have water'd since the world was born. The world! - it is a wilderness, Where tears are hung on every tree; For thus my gloomy phantasy Makes all things weep with me! |