| |
| HOW soft and pure the sunlight falls | |
| On this lone city of the dead,— | |
| How gilds the cold and marble walls, | |
| Where autumn’s crimson leaves are shed: | |
| The gentle uplands and the glades | 5 |
| No sad, funereal aspect wear; | |
| But, as the summer’s greenness fades, | |
| In their new garments seen more fair. | |
| |
| Look, Mary,—what a splendid scene | |
| Around us in the distance lies! | 10 |
| Bright breaks the silver sea between | |
| This island and the western skies. | |
| How still with all her towers and domes | |
| The city sleeps on yonder shore,— | |
| How many thousand happy homes | 15 |
| Yon starless sky is bending o’er! | |
| |
| Happy—although this sacred spot | |
| The happiest may receive at last— | |
| How may their memories be forgot, | |
| Save when some casual glance is cast | 20 |
| By tearless eyes upon their graves, | |
| And passing strangers bend to learn | |
| O’er whom some tree its foliage waves, | |
| Whose name adorns some sculptured urn. | |
| |
| Oh! mournful fate! to die unknown | 25 |
| And leave no constant heart to pine;— | |
| And yet, ere many years have flown, | |
| Such fate, dear Mary, may be mine. | |
| Alone I live, and I shall die | |
| With no sweet hand like thine to close— | 30 |
| When from my sight earth’s miseries fly— | |
| My eyelids in their long repose. | |
| |
