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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            XXXVIII.
             
      With weary steps I loiter on,
          Tho’ always under alter’d skies
          The purple from the distance dies,
      My prospect and horizon gone.

      No joy the blowing season gives,
          The herald melodies of spring,
          But in the songs I love to sing
      A doubtful gleam of solace lives.

      If any care for what is here
          Survive in spirits render’d free,
          Then are these songs I sing of thee
      Not all ungrateful to thine ear.
       


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