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Charlotte Smith - Verses, On The Death Of The Same Lady
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LIKE a poor ghost the night I seek;
ts hollow winds repeat my sighs;
The cold dews mingle on my cheek
With tears that wander from mine eyes.

The thorns that still my couch molest,
Have robb`d these heavy eyes of sleep;
But though deprived of tranquil rest,
I here at last am free to weep.

Twelve times the moon, that rises red
O`er yon tall wood of shadowy pine,
Has fill`d her orb, since low was laid
My Harriet! that sweet form of thine!

While each sad month, as slow it pass`d,
Brought some new sorrow to deplore;
Some grief more poignant than the last,
But thou canst calm those griefs no more.

No more thy friendship soothes to rest
This wearied spirit tempest-toss`d;
The cares that weigh upon my breast
Are doubly felt since thou art lost.

Bright visions of ideal grace
That the young poet`s dreams inflame,
Were not more lovely than thy face;
Were not more perfect than thy frame.

Wit, that no sufferings could impair,
Was thine, and thine those mental powers
Of force to chase the fiends that tear
From Fancy`s hands her budding flowers.

O`er what, my angel friend, thou wert,
Dejected Memory loves to mourn;
Regretting still that tender heart,
Now withering in a distant urn.

But ere that wood of shadowy pine
Twelve times shall yon full orb behold,
This sickening heart, that bleeds for thine,
My Harriet!—may like thine be cold!
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