The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;
And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
Beloved dust! since dust thou art;
And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart!


'T is silent all! —but on my ear
The well-remember'd echoes thrill;
I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still:
Yet oft my doubting soul 't will shake;

Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
Till consciousness will vainly wake
To listen, though the dream be flown.


Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he, who through life's dreary way

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath Will long lament the vanish'd ray That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

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ONE struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ;
One last long sigh to love and thee
Then back to busy life again.
It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before : Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?

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Then bring me wine, the banquet bring
Man was not form'd to live alone :

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I'll be that light unmeaning thing
That smiles with all, and weeps with none.
was not thu in days more dear,
It never would have been, but thou
Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou 'rt nothing, all are nothing now.


In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!

The smile that sorrow fain would wear But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, Like roses o'er a sepulchre. Though gay companions o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, The heart- the heart is lonely still!

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When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, ""T is comfort still," I faintly said,

"That Thyrza cannot know my pains:
Like freedom to the time-worn slave,
A boon 't is idle then to give,
Relenting Nature vainly gave,

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!


My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new!
How different now thou meet'st my gaze!
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue!

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The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silent-ah, were mine as still!
Though cold as e'en the dead can be,
It feels, it sickens with the chill.


Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! Though painful, welcome to my breast! Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,

Or break the heart to which thou 'rt prest! Time tempers love, but not removes,

More hallow'd when its hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves

To that which cannot quit the dead?



WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead. Oblivion! may thy languid wing

Wave gently o'er my dying bed!


No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevell'd hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.


But silent let me sink to Earth,

With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth, Nor startle friendship with a fear.


Yet Love, if such an hour

Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives and him who dies.


'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past,

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee.


- for Beauty still

But vain the wish
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath;
And woman's tears, produced at will,
Deceive in life, unman in death.


Then lonely be my latest hour,
Without regret, without a groan!
For thousands Death hath ceased to lower,
And pain been transient or unknown.


"Ay, but to die, and go,” alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living woe!


Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been

'T is something better not to be.




AND thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;

And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth.

There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.


I will not ask where thou liest low the spot;

Nor There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

gaze upon

So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove

That what I loved and long must love
Like common earth can rot;

To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I loved so well.


Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,

Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see, Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.


The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine :

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep

I envy now too much to weep,

Nor need I to repine

That all those charms have pass'd away; I might have watch'd through long decay.


The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

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