Poetry Archives

Yes, ’twill be over soon.—This sickly dream
  Of life will vanish from my feverish brain;
And death my wearied spirit will redeem
  From this wild region of unvaried pain.
Yon brook will glide as softly as before,
  Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow.
Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar
  When Henry’s name is heard no more below.
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,
  They laugh in health, and future evils brave;
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,
  While I am mouldering in the silent grave.
God of the just, Thou gavest the bitter cup;
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.