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When on this faded cheek, this heaving breast, Death's icy hand with fatal touch is laid;Say wilt thou wander by my bed of rest, And drop one tear o'er thy forsaken maid?
Say, when eternal slumber seals those eyes, That scarcely dar'd thy tender glance to meet,Will yet a thought within thy bosom rise Of her who moulders in her winding sheet?
When cold the hand, oft fondly press'd in vain, That trembled still thy pressure to return,That feebly pens this last sad parting strain, Shall lie inactive in a nameless urn;
Wilt thou not weep? or can thy harden'd heart Nor aught of love, nor tender pity, feelFor her who sinks the victim of thy art, And dies her wrongs and anguish to conceal!
Behold me hast'ning to the silent tomb, And thou, the murd'rer of my peace and fame;Yet uncomplaining will I bear my doom, Nor load with one reproach thy cherish'd name.
May Heav'n forgive thee, as I now forgive, And love and joy yet wait, dear youth! on thee:Yet, oh! my Henry! when I cease to live, Think, sometimes think, upon my love and me!"
