GONE!
Oh, lay her gently in the mould; Cover her o'er; She from her bed so dark and cold Will come no more ! Hushed now for ever is her song, So touched with fire ; Fain would I still its strains prolong On Mem'ry's lyre. Ye gentle gales that breathe of Spring, FJit o'er her grave, And when ye balmy odours bring, Give as she gave. Oh, nurse the willow-tree that weeps O'ei her sweet breast; Oh, nourish each fond flower that keeps Watch o'er her rest. Thou soft and fragrant summer breeze, Her grave come nigh, And linger 'mong the cypress trees That o'er her sigh. Ye brightest stars of shining spheres, Smile from above ; Thou ro3y morn, thy dewy tears *■ Weep o'er my love. , Oh, weep them at thy dawning hour, When none is near; Oh, fill the chalice of each flower With one pure tear. So should they drop upon the ground From flow'res' eyes, They'll fitly consecrate the mound 'Neath which she lies.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/ST18680914.2.20.2
Bibliographic details
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Southland Times, Issue 1021, 14 September 1868, Page 3
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166GONE! Southland Times, Issue 1021, 14 September 1868, Page 3
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