There is one name on which remembrance lingers,
Not soon shall Time tear it from my quick breast;
There comes a music, touched by fairy fingers,
To draw thy features, floats thy spirit’s unrest;
Thy voice shall be a passport through life’s harms;
I will believe thy fondness mends my slips;
When Death shall clasp me in his haggard arms,
I think that name shall arm my quivering lips:
Young years, that made thee wild, had made thee loving;
Nature had crown’d with Beauty what Wit gave;
Perchance this verse shall prove not quite unmoving,
Calling unto thee, as from out the grave:
Yes, well I know, thou’lt sometimes give one sigh,
To years that come no more, when once gone by.