Imitated from Du Moustier 
Submit at length, poor struggling heart,
To drink the cold Lethean draught,
With every fond memorial part,
Tear from thy bleeding breast the shaft.
That bleeding breast, this weeping eye,5
The balm of peace shall then restore,
And thou may'st then forget to sigh,
And think of him so lov'd no more.
And must I think of him no more?
With trembling transport own his voice?10
Nor bless the joy-admitting door
Which opening bad my soul rejoice?
The morn no more shall see me rise
Eager to watch his hop'd return,
And stretch in vain my longing eyes,15
And all the day impatient mourn.
Must I no more expect him here,
And count the weary hours in sorrow,
And sigh as evening shades appear,
Hope whisp'ring still "he comes to-morrow?"20
Must I no more indulge the dreams
Which oft could solitude beguile?
Where seated by me yet he seems,
And fancy paints th'enchanting smile.
Must I, alas, no longer now25
Image delights where he appears?
And breathes for me the tender vow,
And marks with soften'd eye my tears.
Delusions, whose bewitching power
Supported oft my widow'd heart,30
And thou, who gladden'd sorrow's hour,
False, flattering Hope! with all I part.
But worse than every varied pain,
Than all the ills I suffer'd yet,
And sure the hardest to sustain35
Is the chill voice which says Forget.