“My father, yet in pity stay!—­
  “I see his white beard wave;
“A spirit beckons him away,
  “And points to yonder grave.

“Alas, my love, I trembling hear
  “A father’s last adieu;
“I see, I see, the falling tear
  “His wrinkled cheek bedew.

“He’s gone, and here his ashes sleep—­
  “I do not heave a sigh,
“His child a father does not weep—­
  “For, ah, my brain is dry!

“But come, together let us rove,
  “At the pale hour of night;
“When the moon wand’ring thro’ the grove,
  “Shall pour her faintest light.

“We’ll gather from the rosy bow’r
  “The fairest wreaths that bloom: 
“We’ll cull, my love, each op’ning flower,
  “To deck his hallow’d tomb.

“We’ll thither, from the distant dale,
  “A weeping willow bear;
“And plant a lily of the vale,
  “A drooping lily there.

“We’ll shun the face of glaring day,
  “Eternal silence keep;
“Thro’ the dark wood together stray,
  “And only live to weep.

“But hark, ’tis come—­the fatal time
  “When, Edwin, we must part;
“Some angel tells me ’tis a crime
  “To hold thee to my heart.

“My father’s spirit hovers near—­
  “Alas, he comes to chide;
“Is there no means, my Edwin dear,
  “The fatal deed to hide?

“Yet, Edwin, if th’ offence be thine,
  “Too soon I can forgive;
“But, oh, the guilt would all be mine,
  “Could I endure to live.

“Farewel, my love, for, oh, I faint,
  “Of pale despair I die;
“And see, that hoary, murder’d saint
  “Descends from yon blue sky.

“Poor, weak old man! he comes my love,
  “To lead to heav’n the way;
“He knows not heaven will joyless prove,
  “If Edwin here must stay!”—­

“Oh, who can bear this pang!” he cry’d,
  Then to his bosom prest
The dying maid, who piteous sigh’d,
  And sunk to endless rest.

He saw her eyes for ever close,
  He heard her latest sigh,
And yet no tear of anguish flows
  From his distracted eye.

He feels within his shiv’ring veins,
  A mortal chillness rise;
Her pallid corse he feebly strains—­
  And on her bosom dies.

* * * * *

No longer may their hapless lot
  The mournful muse engage;
She wipes away the tears, that blot
  The melancholy page.

For heav’n in love, dissolves the ties
  That chain the spirit here;
And distant far for ever flies
  The blessing held most dear;

To bid the suff’ring soul aspire
  A higher bliss to prove;
To wake the pure, refin’d desire,
  The hope that rests above!—­

A HYMN.

While thee I seek, protecting Power! 
  Be my vain wishes still’d;
And may this consecrated hour
  With better hopes be fill’d.