IF to the sighing breeze of summer-hours
Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird;
Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with flowers,
The soothing murmur of the wave is heard;
Her, whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies,
I see and hear: though dwelling far above,
Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs,
Visits the lone retreat of pensive love.
"Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,"
(Her gentle accents thus benignly say,)
"While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows?
"Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight,
"Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light
"Whose eyes but opened, when they seemed to close!"