Page:Keepsake 1831.pdf/9

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no early flowers to ﬂing O'er thy yet earlier grave; O'er it the morning lark may sing, By it the bright rose wave; The very night dew disappears Too soon, as if it spared its tears.

Thou art forgotten!—thou, whose feet Were listen'd for like song! They used to call thy voice so sweet;— It did not haunt them long. Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth— How could they bear their lonely hearth!

There is no picture to recall Thy glad and open brow; No proﬁled outline on the wall Seems like thy shadow now; They have not even kept to wear One ringlet of thy golden hair.

When here we shelter'd last appears But just like yesterday; It startles me to think that years Since then are past away. The old oak tree that was our tent, No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent.