On The Death Of A Friend.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

AH me! then is Philida gone? But now! and so blythe as they tell? Yes, hark! her mild spirit is flown, I hear my poor Philida's bell.

Stern death counts the Virtues his foes, For they parry a while his fierce dart; So he learnt where they met to repose, And struck gentle Philida's heart.

I'll wander by moon-shine along, I'll seek out some shadow retir'd, For Philida lov'd not a throng, Nor bustle or grandeur admir'd.

And near it I'll pensively stray, I'll watch 'till its soft tints shall fade; For pity I'll beg it to stay, And think it is Philida's shade.

The west breeze I hear softly blow, And my harp's sweetest chords it employs; The sounds tho' they mournfully flow, Sooth not like my Philida's voice.

She is gone! in friendship and love, Here no more shall I Philida see; A span, and I too shall remove, And happy near Philida be.