ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep

Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,

Then will I weep, in anguish weep,

Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,

And mingles in our misery;

Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal —

Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,

But sullen clouds the day deform;

Like thee was that young, orient beam,

Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,

So linked thy soul was with the sky;

Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,

We thought thou wert not formed to die.