Long, hov'ring o'er her fleeting breath,
Love kept his watch in silent gloom;
He saw her meekly yield to Death,
And knelt a mourner at her tomb.

When the night-breeze shall softly blow,
When the bright moon upon the flood
Shall spread her beams (a silv'ry show),
And dark be many a waving wood,--

When, dimly[A] seen, in robes of white,
A mournful train along the grove
Shall bear the lamp of sacred light,
To deck the turf of those they love,--

Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow'r,
And seek the spot were she is laid;
Its wild and mournful notes shall pour
A requiem to her hallow'd shade.

And Friendship oft shall raise the veil
Time shall have drawn o'er pleasures past,
And Fancy shall repeat the tale
Of happy hours, too sweet to last!

But when she mourns o'er Mira's bier,
And when the fond illusion ends,
Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear
That drops for dear departed friends!