Classic Poem

Ah! hills belov'd! — where once a happy child,
Your beechen shades, " your turf, your flowers among, "
I wove your blue-bells into garlands wild,
And woke your echoes with my artless song.
Ah! hills belov'd! — your turf, your flowers remain;
But can they peace to this sad breast restore;
For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain,
And teach a breaking heart to throb no more?
And you, Aruna! — in the vale below,
As to the sea your limpid waves you bear,
Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow,
To drink a long oblivion to my care?
Ah! no! — when all, e'en Hope's last ray is gone,
There's no oblivion — but in death alone!