Litchfield Enquirer

For The Enquirer,
THE MOURNER'S LAY.
They ask of me a "merry song,"
Where still my soul encumbers;
Ah! no: I cannot thus, this autumn day,
Awake the "wonted numbers."
O ask it not, sweet flower,
That late was gayly blooming,
At either side is sleeping now,
Beneath the grave-yard's glooming.
Ask, ask me not of mirthful strains
When dreary winds are sighing;
Your poet sings this autumn day,
Where fallen leaves are lying,
Where marble tombs the bosom deck,
Of earth our common mother;
A new-made grave is at his right,
And at his left another.
Ask not—it were not well to sing
Of love and pleasure ever,
To talk of these this autumn day
Would never do, no never;
For Death hath late two arrows shot,
Drawn from his poisoned quiver—
And thus they fell, two fairest flowers
That floated on life's river.
Ask not—the worn-out lute is wet
With bitter tears of sorrow,
And wailing winds this autumn day
Bespeak a gloomy morrow;
And summer suns, and summer flowers
Whose hues were richly blended,
And summer birds alike are gone,
Life's halcyon days are ended.
Ask not a song of dreamy words,
Of passion's gush of feeling;
My heart is sad this autumn day,
And funeral knells are pealing:
I think of youth's bright shining train,
Of hope their breasts pervading,
And then the thoughts my pulses chill,
Of flowers quickly fading.
Ask, ask me not for songs of glee,
When cherished love is weeping,
I cannot sing this autumn day,
With tears my eyelids sleeping;
Then ask me not the "wonted" lay,
When keenest woes encumber;
Leave, leave me here to mourn and weep
Where beauty's ashes slumber.
JUNIO.