The Power of Solitude/Apostrophe
APOSTROPHE.
Spirit of my sainted fair, Come, Maria, hither bend;Soon shall cease each mortal care, Soon shall all my sorrows end!
Long the prey of ceaseless woe, Time its anguish cannot cure;But this keen convulsive throe, Tells, I shall not long endure.
Why the halcyon hour delay, Lingering minister of peace;When each grief shall melt away, And each sigh of anguish cease?
When my weary spirit free, Thro the seats of joy shall rove;And, entranced in ecstasy, Clasp in fond embrace my love?
Hark, her tender voice I hear, Borne along the hollow gale;"Henry, dry thy burning tear, "Henry, cease thy mournful wail."
No; 'twas but a fancied strain, But my sickening heart return;"Till we meet, my love, again, Henry must forever mourn."
Airy sprites! who, hovering round, Watch the slumbers of the dead,Guard this consecrated ground, Where Maria rests her head.
For, ye sprites, her soul was fair, As the morning's sparkling dew,Pure, as light, that kissed the air, When creation's charms were new.
With the choicest flowers of spring, Deck the virgin's hallowed grave,And their sweetest fragrance wing, O'er the greensward as they wave.
So my tears their youth shall feed, And, when time with chilly powerSteals their bloom, my breast shall bleed, And their rifled charms restore.
Such be yet the grateful care, Which may sooth this aching heart.Till in brighter realms, my fair, Till we meet no more to partį.
Come, Maria, hither bend; Come, sweet angel of the sky,From thy seat of bliss descend, And thy Henry's grief shall die.