O, insatiable monster! Could’st thou not
In pity turn aside thy venomed shaft
From her my gifted, darling friend?
Has sympathy within thy breast
No trysting place? That thou must come
At spring-time when the flowerets bloom
To bear my loved one to the tomb?
So young was she; life’s woes had not yet dimmed
The joyous sunshine of her girlhood’s days;
She did not quaff the dregs of time,
But, like some rosebud prematurely culled,
She sped away, and o’er her grave
So peacefully the willows wave,
And dewdrops, her calm bosom lave.
Tread not the earth where sleeps my loved one’s form;
But place it lightly on her marble brow.
Bid birdies sing at set of sun
To gladden Fannie’s lowly home;
Bid rippling springs with shining spray,
And sylvan notes and songsters lay
Unite, to chase the gloom away.
Blest child! she did not tarry long, and yet—
O, happy thought—she did not live in vain,
If truly she did seek and find
The “Pearl of Price,” that precious boon,
Then ne’er to her could come too soon
The summons to an early tomb.
Blest child, rest! while gentle zephyrs breathe
Their fragrance through the waving trees;
All nature decked in gorgeous array
Is reveling now, but soon alas!
Like thee, ’twill fade. The autumn’s knell
Will ere long peal like funeral bell
Its dirgelike sounds, “Friend, fare thee well.”