'Tis meet that it should be so,--I have made
A wreck of my own happiness, and cast
Across my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shade
That wrinkled age flings over all at last
But let it go,--I have too long delayed
The remedy, and what is past is past;--
And could I live those vanished moments o'er,
My heart would wander as it strayed before.

I know not how it is,--my heart is stern,
And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness;
Yet looking on thy young brow it will yearn,
And in my bosom's innermost recess,
Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burn
With a wild strength which nothing can repress!
Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the cold
And heavy clay--clod mingle with her mould?

Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom,
Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move,
I trace the lineaments of one to whom
My soul was wedded in an early love,--
'Twas in my boyhood; but the insatiate tomb
Claimed her fair form, and for the realms above
Her spirit fled the earth; oh! how I wept
That mine should in its bondage still be kept.

I mind the hour I stood beside the clay
I had so loved in life--it still was fair,
Surpassing fair, in death; and as she lay