Jane's Poetry Book

Written after seeing the
corpse of a Young Lady

In the pride and glory of youthful spring,
  Thy lamp of life hath perished-
Decay hath waved his raven wing
  O'er the rose which beauty cherished;
How gaily thou sported life's path along,
  In maidenbloom, and joy and song,
How soon hath death o'er thy pathway driven,
And borne thee away in his arms to heaven!

No more shall thy footstep lightly tread
  O'er the hill when the morning blushes-
Nor thy voice its winning music shed
  Where the rill in its clear wave gushes-
The stream in gladness shall flow on
Though the flower that graced its banks is gone
And the moon shall blush, but never shine
Again on a fairer form than thine.

No more when the summer moon beams full,
  And the summer stars are shining,
Shall thy gentlehand the lilly cull,
  Its wreath with thy tresses twining-
No more shall thou cull the violet blue,
When its leaves are fresh with evening dew-
Now thine is the cold and icy pall
Instead of love's gay coronal.

Where now is teh light of that mild blue eye?
  In oblivion darkly clouded-
Where now is thy cheek of the purest dye?
  In the winding sheet enshrouded-
The gem which in life's garden sprung
O'er which affection fondly hung,
Oh! where hath its grace and beauty fled?
The stem is broken - the gem is dead!

I saw thy mother bend o'er thy bier,
  While her eye glanced up to heaven-
I heard no sob- I saw no tear-
  But her inmost heart was riven!

Yea, her's was that still agony,
Which works unseen and silently,
Which flows in anguish deep and still,
Like the stream beneath an ice-crowded rill.

Better it were that she should wail,
  That her sorrows loudly should be spoken,
This noiseless grief oft tells the tale,
  That the strings of the heart are broken-
Better it were that tears should start,
From the full eye, than bathe the heart,
For the gathered tears that are washed
Are tokens true that hope is dead.

The branch that died and the tree remains-
  The stem survives its flower-
To every blossom this earth contains
  Must meet with the flighting hour;
Thy morning sky hath an early cloud-
Thy beauty is wreathed in an early shroud-
The light and love of thy days are o'er,
But grief shall veil thy brow no more.

Farewell! thou has fled in thy primal hour,
  In thy sweetness of youthful blossom
E'er sin could sully thy maiden flower,
  Or profane thy guileless bosom
And freshly the myrtle boughs shall wave
Above thy form and around thy grave-
And willow branches bend in air,
For affection'd hands shall plant them there.

Farewell! no longer to give thy way,
  Shall the light of love be blowing,
As late it flowed like the star of day,
  When the stream of life was flowing;
The noontide splendour, the starlit scene,
The summer buds and the autumn's sheen
Shall still pass on, and still return,
But wake not thee from thy tranquil urn.

But when the zephyrs of eve shall kiss
  The fleecy clouds of heaven,-
When the stars shall smile in the fields of bliss
  O'er the deep blue vault of even,
Then fancy shall soar on the wings of love,
And picture thee in the realms above,
A spirit of that immortal shore,
Where pain can wing thee never more!

Florio.    New York  April 26,th 1822.

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