Responsive, ye woods, wing your echoes along,
Till nature, all sad, weeping, listen my song.
Till flocks cease their bleating, and herds cease to low,
And the clear winding rivulet scarce seem to flow;
For fair was the flower that once gladden'd our plains,
Sweet rose-bud of virtue, ador'd by our swains;
But fate, like a blast from the chill wintry wave,
Has laid my sweet flower in yon cold silent grave.
2. Her warm feeling breast did with sympathy glow,
In innocence pure as the new mountain snow;
Her face was more fair than the mild apple-bloom;
Her voice sweet as hope whisp'ring pleasures to come.
Ah Mary, my love ! wilt thou never return!
'Tis thy William who calls--burst the bands of thine urn;
Together we'll wander--poor wretch, how I rave!
My Mary lies low in the lone silent grave.
3. Yon tall leafy planes throw a deep solemn shade
O'er the dear holy spot where my Mary is laid,
Lest the light wanton sunbeams obtrude on the gloom
That lorn love and friendship have wove round her tomb;
Still there let the mild tears of nature remain,
Till calm dewy Evening weep o'er her again;
There oft I will wander--no boon now I crave,
But to weep life away o'er her dark silent grave.
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