When life is hurried to untimely close, In the years of crystal eyes and burnish'd hair, Dire are the thoughts of death; eternal parting From all the precious soul's yet known delights, All she had clung to here; from youth and hope, And the year's blossom'd April; bounding strength, Which had outleap'd the rose, when morning suns Yellow'd their forest glade; from reaper's shout And cheerful swarm of populous towns; from Time, Which tells of joys forepast, and promises The dear return of seasons, and the bliss Crowning a fruitful marriage; from the stores Of well-engrafted knowledge; from all utterance, Since in the silent grave, no talk! no music! No gay surprise, by unexpected good, Social, or individual! -- no glad step Of welcome friend, with more intenseness listen'd Than warbled melody! no father's counsel! No mother's smile! no lover's whisper'd vow! There nothing breathes save the insatiate worm, And nothing is, but the drear altering corse, Resolving silently to shapeless dust, In unpierc'd darkness and in black oblivion. |