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The unripe fruit of thy young spirit's bloom,
Erected thee a bier,
And shed a parting tear,
Hanging an unflowered laurel on thy tomb.
Arid I, in foreign scene,
From thy pure lite-tracks glean
Thoughts far too high for tears, and hopes for years to come.
Erected thee a bier,
And shed a parting tear,
Hanging an unflowered laurel on thy tomb.
Arid I, in foreign scene,
From thy pure lite-tracks glean
Thoughts far too high for tears, and hopes for years to come.
VERSES.
Yes, opening life to him was bright,
It wore his own pure spirit's light;
In every scene he called forth good,
From being's strange vicissitude;
That world, to some so cold and dim,
Was the clear path to heaven for him.
It wore his own pure spirit's light;
In every scene he called forth good,
From being's strange vicissitude;
That world, to some so cold and dim,
Was the clear path to heaven for him.
And life was bright, for round his head
The wreath of spotless fame was spread;
And friendship came with smiles to pour
Her radiance on Iris youthful hour;
And his were joys to which are given
Some faint similitude of heaven.
The wreath of spotless fame was spread;
And friendship came with smiles to pour
Her radiance on Iris youthful hour;
And his were joys to which are given
Some faint similitude of heaven.
