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Literary Gazette, 7th June, 1834, Page 401
They do not last; shade after shade
Come darkly sweeping round us,
Till one dull atmosphere is made,
And earth's worst chain has bound us—
Its selfish cares, whose subtle links
Control the heart's wild beating—
Till each fine impulse, snail-like shrinks,
Within itself retreating.
Its heartlessness, its cold deceit,
The unkindness of the many—
Till grown ourselves like those we meet,
We are as false as any.
But thou didst perish in thy prime,
Sweet Lily, in thy sweetness;
No cause, in thy sole summer time,
Hadst thou to mourn its fleetness;
Do the blue violets weep for thee,
The friends of thy green dwelling?
And mid the cowslip bells the bee
A gentle dirge is knelling.
