TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF GENERAL LALLEMAND.
weet maid! whose life the frost of destiny
Withered while yet its first spring-leaves were green;
Pure, sainted being! from thy home on high,
Look with thine eyes of love, upon the scene
Where, for one little hour, thy spirit moved,
A visitant—to love, and to be loved,
And where thy song of youth to virtue gave
The music of its praises—the green bowers
Of home and friendship wreathed with fadeless flowers,
And made the laurel dearer to the brave.
Still do the hearts that loved thee, beat for thee
Warmly, as when they beat beside thy bier.
And still to them, of earthly things most dear
And sacred, is thy pledge of memory—
A father’s gift, whose every cherished word
Bids the sweet echo of thy song be heard;
And fain would bid their sorrows cease to be.
Would it could soothe a mother’s griefs but they
Are graven deep, and will not pass away!
