Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/269

The deep beseeching of a stricken breast,
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls
Of the kind few that loved him, with a love
Faithful to even its disappointed hope,
That song of tears found root, and by their hearths
Full oft in low and reverential tones,
Fill'd with the piety of tenderness,
Is murmured to their children, when his name
On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls,
Far from the world's rude voices, far away.
Oh! hear, and judge him gently; 'twas his last.


    I come alone, and faint I come,
        To nature's arms I flee;
    The green woods take their wanderer home,
But Thou, O Father! may I turn to Thee?

    The earliest odour of the flower,
        The bird's first song is thine;