On the Death of Sylvia
Oh Death! without regard to wrong or right,
All things at will thy boundless rage devours;
This tender plant thou hast cut down in spight,
And scatter'd on the ground its fruit, and flowers.
Our love's extinct that with such ardour burn'd,
And all my hope of future pleasure dies;
Nature's chief master-piece to earth's return'd,
Deaf to my passion, and my grievous cries.
Sylvia, the tears which on thy sepulchre,
Hereafter shall be shed, or those now are,
Tho' fruitless, yet I offer them to thee,
Until the coming of th' Eternal Night
Shall close these eyes, once happy with thy sight,
And give me eyes with which I thee may see.