To F. F. Kokoshkin, on the Death of His Bride

Ah! the flower is dead--the beauty is departed--
All is fled we cherished;
Love and Friendship, weep! Weep, Hymen, broken-hearted!
Happiness is perished.

Friendship! thy swift hands, with smiles and joys, array’d her
In her living glory;
Now, with sighs and tears, those trembling hands have laid her
In earth’s dormitory.

Plant the cypress there, the yew’s dark umbrage borrow,
For such shade is meetest;
Scatter wreaths, which youth shall dew with tears of sorrow,
For youth’s tears are sweetest.

All is gloomy round--the gale, while it reposes,
Drops its tone of gladness:
And some shadowy ghost strips all the budding roses--
’Tis the shrine of sadness.

Hymen lingers here--pale, fetter’d, chill’d, despairing,
Bent by grief undying:
See his folded arms, bent eyes--his torch, yet flaring,
On the grave is lying.