Delaware Weekly Advertiser And Farmer's Journal

The following lines are from the pen of a young man now in England, but who formerly resided in Wilmington. They are inscribed to the memory of his sister, who died and was buried here a few years ago.

For the Delaware Advertiser.

LUCY'S GRAVE.

Far away o'er the turbulent wave,
Far away from this soft azure sky.
The zephyrs around the sad grave
Of my Lucy at eventide sigh;
Full oft to that grave, when on high
The pale moon looks pensive and clear,
On the light wings of fancy I fly,
And shed o'er my Lucy a tear.

The same moon looks down on the place
Of her placid and peaceful repose
And the sun, when retiring apace,
His parting beam over it throws;
The tall summer grass on it grows
Gently waving when light winds arise,
And the night-hawk, at evening's sweet close,
Hovers round it and plaintively cries

And there, o'er my lov'd Lucy's grave,
In battle the thunder clouds meet,
And round it the wintry winds rave.
And the hurricanes dismally beat:
Yet thy slumber, my Lucy, is sweet
As the spring flowers that o'er thee bloom
And as silent and soft thy retreat,
As the light snow that falls on thy tomb.

See, my Lucy, far off is thy grave
From the home of thy infantine glee
But tho' thou art o'er the wide wave,
Thou art oft times remembered by me
For cold must my young bosom be
To forget thy affection and care,
And those virtues and graces in thee
That made thee beloved every where

But thy spirit is flown to the skies,
To those regions from misery free,
That are not for the brave or the wise
But the pure and the humble like thee
And the thought is consoling to me
Thou art gone to that happier sphere,
For life's journey is rough as the sea
And embittered with many a tear.

Fare thee well then, my Lucy, farewell,
Long shall peace linger round thy last home
While the night-hawk above seems to toll
Of her woe at thy premature doom
The spring flowers shall over thee bloom:
The zephyrs at evening shall sigh--
And the moon beams flow down to thy tomb
From their beautiful fount in the sky.

And the Brandywine near thee shall flow
Romantic and wild as of yore:
And at night when the winds cease to blow,
Thy requiem shall be its deep roar,
Fare-thee-well, my lov'd Lucy, once more;
A long and a fervent farewell,--
May we meet, when my journey is o'er
In the land where the purified dwell.