WRITTEN IN A SUMMER EVENING, FROM THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE .

I T suits the temper of my soul to pour
Fond, fruitless plaints beneath the lonely bower,
Here, in this silent glade, that childhood fears,
Where the love-desperate maid, of vanish'd years,
Slung her dire cord between the sister trees,
That slowly bend their branches to the breeze,
And shade the bank that screens her mouldering form,
From the swart Dog-Star, and the wintry storm.

Ah! dear Honora, summer sheds again
Music, and fragrance, light, and bloom, in vain,
While my sick heart thy smiles no longer cheer,
Nor melt thine accents on my listening ear.
An hour has finish'd its appointed date,
Since on this lone recorded turf I sate. —
How quiet is the green seclusion found!
How deep the solitude that broods around!
No labouring hinds on yonder meads appear,
No human voice, no distant step, I hear;
Yet the sweet linnets warble on the bough,
And tender ringdoves languishingly coo;
The nearly-meeting trees, with plenteous spray,
Arch o'er the darkling lane that winds away
Far to the right. — In front, the silent fields
Now shadows sweep, now evening radiance gilds;
While, to the left, soft sun-beams, as they wane,
Yellow the green paths of the lonely lane;
Where lavish hedgerows boast the wilding's bloom,
Where briar-roses shed their rich perfume;
And gadding woodbines, as their branches wave,
Waft all their fragrance to the hapless grave.

Ah! much I grieve that summer hours consume,
Unshared by thee, the rival of their bloom;
Hours that soft joys should thro' the heart infuse,
And steep the eye-lids in their balmy dews.
To thee, Honora, sister of my soul,
To thee be all their blessings as they roll!
And yet, at times, let kind regret be thine,
Steal o'er thy charms, and shade them as they shine,
For that thy Anna, from her friend away,
Sighs 'mid the glories of the summer day!

Thou say'st, — — To me, now destined to remain
In the joy-hallow'd groves, and conscious plain,
Less irksome must our grieved disunion prove,
Than rise to thee the pains of absent love,
Torn as thou art, in all thy tender truth,
From the dear haunts of our long happy youth;
But sure, of parted friends, her lot we find
Pressing the heaviest on the mournful mind,
Who lingers where each object seems array'd
In the fair semblance of the absent maid;
Where bowers and lawns her stamp and image bear,
At once, alas! so distant, and so near!
And, to the aching heart, and tearful eye,
Stand the mute spectres of departed joy.