The last long separating stroke of Fate,—­
When round thy bed a kindred weeping train
Call’d on thy voice to greet them, but in vain,—­
When o’er thy lips we watch’d thy fault’ring breath—­
When louder grief proclaim’d th’approach of death,—­
Thro’ ev’ry vein an icy horror chill’d,
Colder than marble ev’ry bosom thrill’d. 
Unsettled still, tho’ exercis’d to grieve,
Scarce would my mind the alter’d sight believe;
Familiar scenes a transient calm inspire,
Poor flutt’ring Fancy fann’d the vain desire,
’Till with sad proof thy wasted relics rise,
And restless Nature pours uncall’d-for sighs. 
Ah! long, my William! shall thy picture rest,
Time shall not wear it, imag’d in my breast;
Yes, thou shall live while fond remembrance lives,
’Till he who mourns thee asks the line he gives. 
No common joy, no fugitive delight,
Regret like this could in my breast excite;
For then my sorrow had been less severe,
And tears less copious had bedew’d the bier. 
From the same breast our milky food we drew,
Entwin’d affection strengthen’d as we grew;
Why further trace?  The flatt’ring dream is o’er—­
Thy transient joys and sorrows are no more! 
All, all are fled!—­And, ah! where’er I turn,
Insulting Death directs me to thy urn,
Throws his cold shadows round me while I sing. 
Damps ev’ry nerve, and slackens ev’ry string. 
So, when the Moon trims up her waning fire,
Sweep the night-breezes o’er th’Aeolian lyre;
Ling’ring, perchance, some wild pathetic sound
Lulls the lorn ear, and dies along the ground. 
Ye kindred train! who, o’er the parting grave,
Have mourn’d the virtues which ye could not save. 
Ye know how Mem’ry, with excursive pow’r,
Extracts a sweet from ev’ry faded hour;—­
From scenes long past, regardless of repose,
She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes. 
Thou tuneful, mute, companion[A] of my care! 
Where now thy notes, that linger’d in the air? 
That linger still!—­Vain thy harmonious store,—­
Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more. 
Thy mournful image strikes my wand’ring eye;
Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh. 
Cold is that band which Music form’d her own,
When ev’ry chord resign’d its sweetest tone. 
Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest,
Silent and sad, neglected and unprest,
’Till years, lov’d shade! superior pow’rs resign,
Or raise one note more eloquent than thine. 
Tho’ with’ring Sickness mark’d thee in the womb,
And form’d thy cradle but to form thy tomb,
Yet, like a flow’r, she bade thee reach thy prime,
The fairer victim for the stroke of Time. 
When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease,
The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,—­
When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refus’d thy call,
Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,—­
When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos’d and damp,