Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly?
And, ah! what then was left thee--but to die!
Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath,
Or mingled solace with the pangs of death:
No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiven,
Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n:
But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come,
And hovering angels hail'd their sister home.
I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse
Thy hapless fate, inscribe my simple verse.
Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell;
Accept its offering, while it heaves--farewell!
TO ------.
AN IMPROMPTU.
O Sue! you certainly have been
A little raking, roguish creature,
And in that face may still be seen
Each laughing love's bewitching feature!
For thou hast stolen many a heart;
And robb'd the sweetness of the rose;
Placed on that cheek, it doth impart
More lovely tints--more fragrant blows!
Yes, thou art Nature's favourite child,
Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing;
Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild,
And set his very soul a-thrilling!
A poet, much too poor to live,
Too poor in this rich world to rove;
Too poor for aught but verse to give,
But not, thank God, too poor to love!
Gives thee his little doggerel lay;--One
truth I tell, in sorrow tell it:
I'm forced to give my verse away,
Because, alas! I cannot sell it.
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