Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.