To Laura In Death

O blessed spirit! who dost oft return,

Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,

From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,

Has lit with all the lustres of the morn:

How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scorn

O'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!

Thus do I seem again to trace below

Thy beauties, hovering o'er their loved sojourn.

There now, thou seest, where long of thee had been

My sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell--

Of thee!--oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen.

One only solace cheers the wretched scene:

By many a sign I know thy coming well--

Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour'd green.