previous
next

I.

I sit beside the festal board,
Where once the wine we gaily poured,
And sang the song again;
I sit, but ah! I sit alone,
I hear the mournful night breeze moan—
No echo of the strain!
My friends have drunk their wine, and now
The grave-worm coils round many a brow
Where roses used to twine;
The guests are gone, the revel's o'er,
The man I loved shall never more
Proffer the pledging wine.

previous
next