Poetry Archives

Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac’s woe,
  And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young;
Oh! may thy bosom never, never know
  The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung.
I had a mother once—a brother too—
  (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:)
I had a lover once, and kind and true,
  But mother, brother, lover, all are fled!
Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye?
  Oh! gentle lady—not for me thus weep,
The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,
  And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep.
Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom—
  My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.