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And what survives?—its gold is dust—
Its proud ones ashes—is there nought,
No memory of the pure and just,
No trace of all their hand has wrought,
To live to future age? There came
A voice from the surrounding earth,
Which cried—"There yet survives one name!—
A noble spirit here had birth!"
Its proud ones ashes—is there nought,
No memory of the pure and just,
No trace of all their hand has wrought,
To live to future age? There came
A voice from the surrounding earth,
Which cried—"There yet survives one name!—
A noble spirit here had birth!"
"She sorroweth not as one without hope."
She sat in the soft and twilight hours,
In the lovely scene of her own green bowers;
The bright blue sky was over her spread,
On the velvet lawn she pillowed her head,
And around her all sweets of earth and air
Rejoiced in the breeze, for that scene was fair.
In the lovely scene of her own green bowers;
The bright blue sky was over her spread,
On the velvet lawn she pillowed her head,
And around her all sweets of earth and air
Rejoiced in the breeze, for that scene was fair.
Her eye on the distant landscape fell,
The groves and the river she loved so well;
The groves and the river she loved so well;
