The Forsaken

Let us talk of grief no more
Till the bat is flying;
Fitter mem'ry's sadd'ning lore
When the day is dying,
When the joyous sun hath fled,
And weeping dews around are shed:
Sad things are most fitly said,
When the night wind's sighing.


Sighing round some lonely tow'r
Where, within, is mourning;
And on the hearth, at midnight hour,
Low the brands are burning.
There the embers, fading fast,
(Relics of a glowing past)
Tell of fires too fierce to last:--
Love knows no returning.