Poetry Archives

In thee, I fondly hop’d to clasp
  A friend, whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp,
  Detach’d thee from my breast for ever.


True, she has forc’d thee from my breast,
  Yet, in my heart, thou keep’st thy seat;
There, there, thine image still must rest,
  Until that heart shall cease to beat.

And, when the grave restores her dead,
  When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I’ll lay my head—
  Without thee! where would be my Heaven?