| |
| ’TIS gone, with its thorns and its roses, | |
| With the dust of the ages to mix; | |
| Time’s charnel for ever encloses | |
| The year Eighteen hundred and six! | |
| |
| Though many may question thy merit, | 5 |
| I duly thy dirge will perform, | |
| Content, if thy heir but inherit | |
| Thy portion of sunshine and storm! | |
| |
| My blame and my blessing thou sharest, | |
| For black were thy moments in part, | 10 |
| But O! thy fair days were the fairest | |
| That ever have shone on my heart. | |
| |
| If thine was a gloom the completest | |
| That death’s darkest cypress could throw, | |
| Thine, too, was a garland the sweetest | 15 |
| That life in full blossom could show! | |
| |
| One hand gave the balmy corrector | |
| Of ills which the other had brew’d; | |
| One draught of thy chalice of nectar | |
| All tastes of thy bitters subdued. | 20 |
| |
| ’Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses! | |
| With mine tears more precious will mix, | |
| To hallow the midnight which closes, | |
| The year Eighteen hundred and six. | |
| |
