Poems (Campbell)/Rosa's Urn
ROSA'S URN.
'Tis night, and the moon faintly chequers the stream,
And throws her pale lustre on Rosa's cold urn,—
While pensive I wander beneath her pale beam,
And sigh for the days that can never return.
For, oh! she was lovely, and gentle as fair
With a form and a mind that an angel might wear;
But now she is gone—she has left me to mourn,
And I grieve for the days that can never return.
And throws her pale lustre on Rosa's cold urn,—
While pensive I wander beneath her pale beam,
And sigh for the days that can never return.
For, oh! she was lovely, and gentle as fair
With a form and a mind that an angel might wear;
But now she is gone—she has left me to mourn,
And I grieve for the days that can never return.
I mingle my tears with the waves as they flow,
Sweet Echo I call from her caverns to mourn;
To me all fair nature seems clouded with woe,
While I weep for the days that can never return,
The damp earth my bed, and my pillow this stone,
No pleasure I'll court since my Rosa is gone;
But till life's latest moment my spirit shall mourn,
And grieve for the days that can never return.
Sweet Echo I call from her caverns to mourn;
To me all fair nature seems clouded with woe,
While I weep for the days that can never return,
The damp earth my bed, and my pillow this stone,
No pleasure I'll court since my Rosa is gone;
But till life's latest moment my spirit shall mourn,
And grieve for the days that can never return.