The Mad Lover

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At the Grave of his Mistress

Stay, gentle Stranger, softly tread!
  Oh, trouble not this hallow'd heap.
Vile Envy says my Julia's dead;
  But Envy thus Will never sleep.

Ye creeping Zephyrs, hist you, pray,
  Nor press so hard yon wither'd leaves;
For Julia sleeps beneath this clay-
  Nay, feel it, how her bosom heaves!

Oh, she was purer than the stream
  That saw the first created morn;
Her words were like a sick man's dream
  That nerves with health a heart forlorn.

And who their lot would hapless deem
  Those lovely, speaking lips to view;
That light between like rays that beam
  Through sister clouds of rosy hue?

Yet these were to her fairer soul
  But, as yon op'ning clouds on high
To glorious worlds that o'er them roll,
  The portals to a brighter sky.

And shall the glutton worm defile
  This spotless tenement of love,
That like a playful infant's smile
  Seem'd born of purest light above?

And yet I saw the sable pall
  Dark-trailing o'er the broken ground-
The earth did on her coffin fall-
  I heard the heavy, hollow sound

Avaunt, thou Fiend! nor tempt my brain
  With thoughts of madness brought from Hell!
No wo like this of all her train
  Has Mem'ry in her blackest cell.

'Tis all a tale of fiendish art-
  Thou com'st, my love, to prove it so!
I'll press thy hand upon my heart-
  It chills me like a hand of snow!

Thine eyes are glaz'd, thy cheeks are pale,
  Thy lips are livid, and thy breath
Too truly tells the dreadful tale--
  Thou comest from the house of death!

Oh, speak, Beloved! lest I rave;
  The fatal truth I'll bravely meet,
And I will follow to the grave,
  And wrap me in thy winding sheet.

© Washington Allston