1839.]
The Dying Girl.
399
THE DYING GIRL.
I.Do not forget me!—I would not my nameAs a strange language to your ears became,But seldom uttered, only heard with sighs,As harp-string to the moaning wind replies—Not so, not so!II.Speak of me, when the summer day is brightWith glorious sunbeams, and the golden lightStreams through the lattice of my own green bower;Let me be there, in that rejoicing hour,At least in name.III.Speak of me, when the twilight's purple hazeShuts each fair prospect from your ardent gaze,And turning to the quiet joys of home,Sweet memories of departed dear ones come,To stir the heart.IV.Speak of me, when in heaven's blue arch afar,Shines forth in glory each effulgent star;Say how I loved their lustre, that my nameMay ever dwell amid their hosts of flame,To meet your eyes!V.Speak of me, when my own sweet garden rose,On slender stem, in moss-clad beauty blows;I would be linked with all the flowers that bloom,Till ye might half forget the silent tomb,Where I shall lie.VI.Speak of me, when around the winter's hearth,Young hearts are cheerful with the season's mirth,And strike the soft guitar I loved so well,And let its chords, in some old ballad, tellA tale of me!VII.Speak of me, not in sorrow, for ye knowTo what calm skies and gentle streams I go;To flowers that fade not, through eternal spring,All robed in light, to wear an angel's wing,An angel's crown.VIII.Speak of me then with gladness, not with tears,For when have flitted by a few short years,Ye, too, will pass from earthly care and pain,And we shall meet in paradise again,No more to part!
New-York, April, 1839.
