The town sleeps in ruins and solitude reigns,
Where nature once smiled with the aspect of day;
Drear night broods alone o'er the valley and plains,
And thy shores, Powhatan! nought but sadness display.
The tribute, fair Princess, that rose to thy fame,
The memorial so dear to affection and thee,
Is scattered afar, and there's nought but the name
To tell that thy soul was as generous as free.
Lorn now is the structure once hallowed by prayer,
No longer the organ is heard on the aisle,
The ivy is festooned, the cypress blooms there,
And the lonely night-bird nestles sad in the spoil.
In the clefts of the tombstone the tall grass is green,
The shrub and the lilac commingle their shade;
'Mid the moss-covered fragments the yew tree is seen,
It hallows the spot where the fathers are laid.
The relics of sorrow are scattered around,
The wild flowerets shade them, the thistles appear,
But the heart of affection oft visits the mound,
The traveller returns and indulges the tear.
Oh dust of my fathers! still soft be your bed,
Revered be the trophies which memory endears:
Ye ruins that hallow the place of the dead,
Your remembrance shall live while virtue hath tears.