A Sigh

FARE-THEK-SWEETLY, Youthhood's time,
Golden time of Love and Singing!

Hope and Joy were in their prime

Only when thy flowers were springing.

All thy voiceful soul is mute,

Thou hast dreamed thy dream of glory:
Scarcely now can lyre or lute

Wake one echo of thy story!

Ah! the heart is but a grave,

Late or soon, for young Affection.
There the Love that Nature gave

Sleeps, to know no resurrection.

This our sons will echo long;

This our sires have sung before us:
Join, then, we the shadowy throng!

Swell, then, we the spectral chorus!