Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.
The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.
Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.
Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
Go! you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away! There 's such a charm in melancholy I would not if I could be gay.
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.