POE TRY.
Is fluting near my garden seat, Your sky is fair above my head, And Tweed rejoices at my feet.
The squirrels gambol in the oak, All, all is glad, but you prefer To linger on amid the smoke Of stony-hearted Westminster.
Again I read your letter through,— " How wonderful is fate's decree, How sweet is all your life to you, And 0, how sad is mine to me !"
I know your wail, who knows it not ?— HE gave,—HE taketh that HE gave. Yours is the lot, the common lot, To go down weeping to the grave.
Sad journey to a dark abyss, Meet ending of your sorrow keen,— The burthen of my dirge is this,
And this my woe, —It might have been !
Dear bird I Blythe bird that sings in frost, Forgive my friend if he is sad ; He mourns what he has only lcet,— I weep what I have never had.
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