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And there the 'scutcheon shall not shine,
And there the banner shall not wave; The treasures of the glittering mine
Would ill become a lover's grave :
My liberated shade shall roam,
Shall decorate my narrow home:
Like Florence in her early day ; Or, nipp'd by cold December’s air,
Wither-like Hope and thee-away.
O'er yon Churchyard the storin may lower ;
But, heedless of the wintry air,
One little bud shall linger there, A still and trembling flower.
Unscathed by long revolving years,
Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,
And sparkle in the moonlight, wet With the pale dew of tears.
And where thine humble ashes lie,
Instead of 'scutcheon or of stone,
It rises o'er thee, lonely one, Child of obscurity !
Mild was thy voice as Zephyr's breath,
Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded !
But the voice hath died, the cheek hath faded In the cold breeze of death !
Brightly thine eye was smiling, Sweet !
But now Decay hath still'd its glancing ; Warmly thy little heart was dancing, But it hath ceased to beat!
A few short months—and thou wert here ! Hope sat upon thy youthful brow ;
And what is thy memorial now? . A Flower—and a Tear.
SONNET TO ADA.
The touching pathos of thy low sweet voice
Nessun magglor dolore,
Stand on a funeral mound,
Far, far from all that love thee; With a barren heath around,
And a cypress bower above thee: And think, while the sad wind frets,
And the night in cold gloom closes, Of spring, and spring's sweet violets,
Of summer, and summer's roses.
Sleep where the thunders fly
Across the tossing billow ; Thy canopy the sky,
And the lonely deck thy pillow: