YOUNG Damon of the vale is dead, Ye lowland hamlets moan: A dewy turf lies o'er his head, And at his feet a stone. His shroud, which death's cold damps destroy, Of snow-white threads was made: All mourn'd to see so sweet a boy In earth for ever laid. Pale pansies o'er his corpse were plac'd, Which, pluck'd before their time, Bestrew'd the boy like him to waste, And wither in their prime. But will he ne'er return, whose tongue Could tune the rural lay? Ah, no! his bell of peace is rung, His lips are cold as clay. They bore him out at twilight hour, The youth who lov'd so well: Ah me! how many a true-love shower Of kind remembrance fell! Each maid was woe--but Lucy chief, Her grief o'er all was tried, Within his grave she dropp'd in grief, And o'er her lov'd-one died. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOUSES OF DREAMS by SARA TEASDALE AN ODE TO THE RAIN by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN [MARCH 8, 1862] by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL A PETITION TO TIME by BRYAN WALLER PROCTER LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 8. THE EVICTION by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: GOD IS MY WITNESS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |