STILL as the circling months successive climb,
With ling'ring footsteps, up the steep of time,
Bleak February frowns in his return,
And crowns with cypress a sepulchral urn.
For me he still a mournful aspect wears,
And still receives the tribute of my tears.
Are not the ills enough which time supplies,
To check the dawning comforts in their rise?
Must memory too the present evils aid,
And tinge with darker hues life's deep'ning shade?
Must woes on woes accumulated roll,
And cloud with care the sunshine of the soul?
Such is our wretched lot, ill-fated kind!
Our thread of life with misery entwin'd;
Capricious fortune's sport, or passion's slave;
Till peace takes root, and blossoms on the grave.
Can I forget the days of anxious pain,
When that dear angel form I watch'd in vain?
Can I forget the agonizing hour
When those lov'd eyes were clos'd, to wake no more?
Ah, no! revolving years in vain depart,
The traces still remain upon my heart!