When 'm no more, this harp that rings

When I'm no more, this harp that rings
With passion's tones profound,
Shall hang with rent and tuneless strings
O'er my sepulchral mound;
Then, as the breeze of night steals o'er
Its lone and ruined frame,
Twill seek the music that of yore
To greet its murmurs came.

But vainly shall the night winds breathe
O'er every mouldering wire,
Mute as the form that sleeps beneath
Shall rest that broken lyre.
O Memory! be thy unction blest
Poured then around my bed,
Like balm that haunts the rose's breast
When all her bloom hath fled long.

The Keepsake, 1830.