Do you remember how he lay
All through that glorious summer day,
How beauteous even in lifeless clay?
Before the window at his head
Late lilac blooms faint perfumes shed,
Which floated in around his bed.
The soft airs touched his forehead grand,
Touched, too, the slender, boyish hand,
Touched those young lips, so pure and bland.
Upon his pillow you had laid
Fresh garden-flowers; the light winds strayed
Among them as if half afraid;
For summer winds, and fragrant air,
Stirred not one thread of slumbering hair;
Death's dew had drenched those locks so fair.
Without, the drowsy hum of noon,
The robin's chirp, the pigeon's croon;
Within, the twilight's hush and gloom.
O mortal love! the dead alone,
The dead you with such tears bemoan,
Can still be truly called your own.
With them no change of first affection,
Death saved their bloom of predilection,
Brought virtues to a rare perfection.
And now, as I recall that day
When on his couch of death he lay,
So beauteous even in lifeless clay,
I think--had our regretful tears
Reclaimed him to these earthly spheres,
What risks of sin had marred these years.
