POUR ELISE FRISELL.(Chateaubriand.)
The coffin sinks, and sink the roses white,
A father's tribute in his sorrowing hour:
Earth, that bore both, now hiding from the light,
Young girl, young flower!
A father's tribute in his sorrowing hour:
Earth, that bore both, now hiding from the light,
Young girl, young flower!
Ah, ne'er return them to this world profane!
This world where mourning, anguish, sorrow, lower.
Winds bruise and scatter, sunbeams burn and stain,
Young girl, young flower!
This world where mourning, anguish, sorrow, lower.
Winds bruise and scatter, sunbeams burn and stain,
Young girl, young flower!
Though sleep'st, poor child, unbowed by years of care,
Fearing the task and heat of day no more;
Both just outlived their morning fresh and fair,
Young girl, young flower!
Fearing the task and heat of day no more;
Both just outlived their morning fresh and fair,
Young girl, young flower!
Thy father bends above thy last repose,
Pale are the lines that mark his temples hoar;
Around thy root, old oak, Time ruthless mows,
Young girl,—young flower!
Pale are the lines that mark his temples hoar;
Around thy root, old oak, Time ruthless mows,
Young girl,—young flower!
