These golden Buttercups are April's seal, Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom, 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 : But now I gladden in her sleep. Last night unbound my raven locks, But thou art chang'd, and so are they! And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning. The rivers run chill, The red sun is sinking, And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking; Here's enow for sad thinking! ODE TO MELANCHOLY. COME, let us set our careful breasts, |