DIRGE Written at Brompton January 12 1805
Written at Brompton
Bloom, sweet Acacia, ever bloom,
And let thy graceful, pensile boughs
Wave lightly o'er the grassy tomb,
Which fate my favorite here allows.
Oh! lost, for ever lost, farewell!5
This once-loved voice thou canst not hear,
But Sorrow's self alone can tell
How bitter is this parting tear.
Beloved, beautiful, and fond!
To this sad heart too dearly bound,10
What tho' proud reason scorn the bond,
Yet was it closely, firmly wound.
Oh! thou wert mine in brighter hours!
And dear while life itself was dear,
While Pleasure shone o'er all the bowers15
That Youth and Hope delight to rear.
And thou hast seen that golden sun
'Mid heaviest clouds for ever set,
Nor shudd'ring felt, as I have done,
The hand of fate that lingers yet.20
Yes it was meet we now should part,
Our days of gaiety had fled,
And hardly thro' this languid heart
Is life's warm current feebly led.
For who, when death had closed these eyes,25
Like me would watch thee tenderly?
Thy winning ways so fondly prize,
And feel them blest by Memory.
But Oh! 'twas sad with hopeless pang
Thy dying agonies to mark,30
The cries that o'er my heart-strings rang,
The last faint glimm'ring, vital spark.
Yes! these were sad - but all is o'er
Why must I still these pangs behold?
Why hear the voice that moans no more?35
Why feel those limbs convuls'd and cold?
Oh! why must fancy still revive
The anguish thou no more canst have?
Why still in tortured Memory live
Regretted joys and transient woe?40
Then fare thee well! a long farewell
Thy melancholy mistress breathes, 
But bids this sweet acacia bloom,
Her fondness and regrets to tell,
In verdant festoons, roseate wreaths45
Forever o'er her favorite's tomb.