by Eliza Acton
'Tis ruin all!-but o'er my heart
A deeper change is hast'ning on;
Its ev'ry dream will soon depart,
Its ev'ry hope from earth be won.
A little space-and o'er my breast
The Spring's young flow'rs may freshly bloom,
For I shall then in peaceful rest
Repose within the silent tomb.
Then come to this lone spot, and say,
"The Roses which she lov'd, are gone;
The violet wreaths have died away;
And e'en the minstrel-birds are flown.
The spark'ling waters move no more
With murmuring music through the vale;
The sacred cedar's grace is o'er,
For leafless now it greets the gale.
Yet dear to her was this still scene,
Where desolation's seal is set,
As if its beauty ne'er had been,
So wildly by destruction met."
Last updated January 14, 2019