Weep not for me! But say, when I am gone,
That I was true in death,
And with my latest breath
Hymn'd thy dear name. Oh! should each sorrowing tone
That I have struck, should each beloved lay
That I have breathed, the while
I saw thee sit and smile,
Bid thy young heart in anguish melt away,
Then think of me no more; for I would crave
No thoughts that gloom impart,
Only one pitying heart,
To shed, like eve, soft dews upon my grave.
But should my mother ask where I am sleeping,
Tell her 'tis in a dell
Where flow'rs and sweet winds dwell,
And beautiful eyes in solitude are weeping.
And should she bid thee tune the harp I loved,
Then wake some simple tone
That you and I have known,
When in the woods of Carisbroke we rov'd :
And should she ask thee on some future day
What latest accents bung
Tremblingly on my tongue;
Say this was my last song-my swan-like roundelay.
He ceased, and gently on his Ellen's breast
Wept his fond soul away! 'Twas pulseless now;
For in his eye, and o'er his brow, there rush'd
The hues of death! wan, cold, but beautiful.
Thoughtful she gazed, and o'er the sullen corse
Pour'd forth a deluging flood: 'twas idle all,
For he was gone, and she was desolate.
She bore him to his home of peace, and pined In silent sickliness of thought:-the spot Where first they met, the scenes that he had loved, The garden-walks that he had plann'd, the flow'rs That his own skill had rear'd-all, all grew dear To her, and were as chambers in the mind Where memory hung her pictures.
Never she smiled, but wept her youth away
In saddening gloom-like autumn into winter:
Gently her spirit burst its ligaments,
And gently came Consumption, with his train
Of thoughtful sweetnesses: he spake of peace,
And as the sun-beam on the mouldering wall
Sheds beautiful light, so through her ruin'd form
He shone with kindliest smiles, as though he craved
Her gentle leave to woo her to his arms.
There was a rippling brook that flow'd beside
The village path-way, overhung with boughs
That stretch'd themselves at ease athwart the stream,
As if to hide from garish eye the secrets
Of its flowing water: here at close of eve
Would Ellen stray; and as the gurgling brook
Flow'd on, companion'd by the musical voice
Of its own giddy whirlpool, think how soon
Hope glided like the rivulet away:
Then would she pause, or, rambling higher up
Where the stream widens, fix her dewy eye
In melancholy thoughtfulness upon
Its mirror, and survey as in a glass
Her wasted form: Death gave her back a look
From the clear stream, but with so sweet a smile
That almost could she be in love with him.
If chance you met her, she would weep and say,
How fitting for a lover's grave the pool
Would be, for there were nightingales to frame
A dirge for the departed, woods to guard
The secrets of the tomb, soft silvery waters
To kiss the buried as they glided by,
And spring to scatter sweets; then would she pause,
And say the spot was meant to be her grave.
These are but idle records; but to hearts
Attuned to sympatby, the slightest word,
The slightest recollection of a friend
Or relative, on whom the grave hath closed,
And whom we long have valued, will awake,
As from a sleep of death, the drowsy thought.
Moons waned, and Ellen's virginal spring was nipp'd
I' the bud; her voice was gone, and had no strength
To say her heart was broken: but the cheek
Wan with the hue of thought, the hollow eye,
The tomb of dead expression, told a tale
Of wasting dissolution yet to be.
It came at last, the hour of parting came
To Ellen and her sorrowing: the day
Was bright, and on the western slopes the sun
Pour'd a faint track of light: 'twas here they stood,
Here on the mountainous steep, where the sweet girl
First heard a lover's tale; excellent well
She knew the haunt, for often from that hour
With lingering footstep had she sought the spot,
And worn a little path-way with her tread.
She sought it now; for she believed that death
Was gaining fast, and 'twould be treachery,
She said, to die in other place than this.
We met her as she rambled up the steep,
And gazed as on an angel: onward still
She pass'd, hymning a plaintive air to soothe
The conflict of her young and broken heart;-
The sun set, and the night came glooming o'er
In frowning majesty, meek twilight still
Brighten'd the scene:-but Ellen's sun was set,
To brighten ne'er again on earth; she died
On the dear spot she loved in life so much.
Now, sweet one, fare thee well! The spring shall bloom pass away, but thou shalt never see it;
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