Death

I.
They die--the dead return not--Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye--
They are the names of kindred, friend and lover,
Which he so feebly calls-they all are gone--
Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain--
These tombs-alone remain.

II.
Misery, my sweetest friend-oh, weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled-I wonder not!
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling-s door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain--
These tombs-alone remain.