--her soul hath fled without
A pang, and left her lovely in her death,
And beautiful as an embodied dream.
MORTALITY.
All that we love and feel on Nature's face,
Bear dim relations to our common doom.
The clouds that blush, and die a beamy death,
Or weep themselves away in rain,--the streams
That flow along in dying music,--leaves
That fade, and drop into the frosty arms
Of Winter, there to mingle with dead flowers,--
Are all prophetic of our own decay.
BEAUTY
How oft, as unregarded on a throng
Of lovely creatures, in whose liquid eyes
The heart-warm feelings bathe, I've look'd
With all a Poet's passion, and have wish'd
That years might never pluck their graceful smiles--
How often Death, as with a viewless wand,
Has touch'd the scene, and witch'd it to a tomb!
Where Beauty dwindled to a ghastly wreck,
And spirits of the Future seem'd to cry,--
Thus will it be when Time has wreak'd revenge.
MELANCHOLY.
When mantled with the melancholy glow
Of eve, she wander'd oft: and when the wind,
Like a stray infant down autumnal dales
Roam'd wailingly, she loved to mourn and muse:
To commune with the lonely orphan flowers,
And through sweet Nature's ruin trace her own.
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