159
ROSA'S URN.
'Tis night, and the moon faintly chequers the stream, And throws her pale lustre on Rosa's cold urn,—While pensive I wander beneath her pale beam, And sigh for the days that can never return.For, oh! she was lovely, and gentle as fairWith a form and a mind that an angel might wear;But now she is gone—she has left me to mourn,And I grieve for the days that can never return.
I mingle my tears with the waves as they flow, Sweet Echo I call from her caverns to mourn;To me all fair nature seems clouded with woe, While I weep for the days that can never return,The damp earth my bed, and my pillow this stone,No pleasure I'll court since my Rosa is gone;But till life's latest moment my spirit shall mourn,And grieve for the days that can never return.
