Джордж Дарли (George Darley)

Lenimina Laborum. 8. The Lament

I've heard indeed of happy those
Whom funeral winds hushed to repose,
Of showers that fell when piteous Heaven
Was forced to take what it had given,—
But nought for me will care to weep
The fields will don their usual green,
The mountains keep their changeless mien,
And every tree will toss his plumes
As brave as erst,—the day that dooms
Me to my everlasting sleep!

Above my earth the flowers will blow,
As gay, or gayer still than now!
And o'er my turf as merrily
Will roam the sun-streak' d giddy bee,
Nor wing in silence past my grave:
The bird that loves the morning rise,
"Whose light soul lifts him to the skies,
Will beat the hollow heaven as loud,
While I lie moistening my shroud
With all the cruel tears I have!

No friend, no mistress dear, will come
To strew a death-flower on my tomb;
But robin's self, from off my breast.
Will pick the dry leaves for his nest
That careless winds had carried there:
All, but the stream,—compelled to mourn.
Aye since he left his parent urn,—
Will sport and smile about my bed
As joyful. as I were not dead.
Neglect more hard than death to bear!

Alive, I would he loved of One,
I would be wept when I am gone;
Methinks a tear from Beauty's eye
Would make me even wish to die—
To know what I have never known!
But on this pallid-cheek, a ray
Of kindred ne'er was cast away.
And as I lived most broken-hearted
So shall I die, all—all deserted,
Without one sigh—except my own! 

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