I'll weave a bracelet of this hair,—
Although these locks so hallowed are,
It seems like sacrilege to wear
Such relics of the dead.
I've seen them clust'ring 'round a brow
Which drooped beneath affliction's blow,
And slumbers in the church-yard now,
With all its beauty flown.
The hand that dressed these locks with care,
And 'ranged them 'round that brow so fair,
And oft clasped mine with friendly air,
Is turning back to dust.
And closed those eyes, whose radiant beams
Surpass'd imagination's dreams,
Yet whisp'ring still, were but faint gleams
Emerging from the soul.
Farewell, dear friend, these locks I'll keep,
Till in the grave with thee I sleep;
There, like thee, may I cease to weep,
And, with thee, wake to sing.