Samuel Lover

The Forsaken

Let us talk of grief no more
 Till the bat is flying;
Fitter mem'ry's sadd'ning lore
 When the day is dying,
When the joyous sun hath fled,
And weeping dews around are shed:
Sad things are most fitly said,
 When the night wind's sighing.

Sighing round some lonely tow'r
 Where, within, is mourning;
And on the hearth, at midnight hour,
 Low the brands are burning.
There the embers, fading fast,
(Relics of a glowing past)
Tell of fires too fierce to last:—
 Love knows no returning.