How stern are the woes² of the desolate³ mourner

    As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier，

    As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner，

    And drops to perfection's remembrance a tear；

    When floods of despair down his pale cheeks are streaming，

    When no blissful hope on his bosom⁴ is beaming，

    Or， if lulled⁵ for a while， soon he starts from his dreaming，

    And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.

    Ah， when shall day dawn on the night of the grave，

    Or summer succeed to the winter of death？

    Rest awhle， hapless victim！ and Heaven will save

    The spirit that hath faded away with the breath.

    Eternity⁶ points， in its amaranth bower⁷

    Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect⁸ lour，

    Unspeakable pleasure， of goodness the dower，

    When woe¹ fades away like the mist of the heath.

上一篇：A Lament 下一篇：The Death of the Flowers