, and seek A better country. Ah! how oft that eye Would turn on me, with pity's tenderest look, And, only half-upbraiding, bid me flee From the vain idols of my boyish heart!
It was about the same time, while still feeling the sadness of this bereavement, that he wrote the fragment entitled
"THE RIGHTEOUS PERISHETH, AND NO MAN LAYETH IT TO HEART."
A grave I know Where earthly show Is not--a mound Whose gentle round Sustains the load Of a fresh sod. Its shape is rude, And weeds intrude Their yellow flowers-- In gayer bowers Unknown. The grass, A tufted mass, Is rank and strong, Unsmoothed and long. No rosebud there Embalms the air; No lily chaste Adorns the waste, Nor daisy's head Bedecks the bed. No myrtles wave Above that grave; Unknown in life, And far from strife, He lived:--and though The magic flow Of genius played Around his head, And he could weave "The song at eve," And touch the heart, With gentlest art; Or care beguile, And draw the smile Of peace from those Who wept their woes
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