Page:Literary Souvenir 1835.pdf/10



' lonely as my own sad heart, ’Tis silent as my own still lute, Fair garden—lovely as thou art, Thy walks are lorn, thy songs are mute. The sun-set's melancholy beam Falls o'er thy vases' sculptured snow, These urns for roses made, now seem As if the dead were laid below.

The statues wear a sterner brow Than they were wont to wear of old; The blossoms, drooping from the bough, Leave half sweet summer's tale untold. Droop, droop, pale flowers, for ye are mine; Your early doom my own will be; Give me some sympathising sign That nature sorroweth with me.