O'er Henry now the quivering zephyrs play, And hark! the Trent through yonder valley flows, Bewailing still the inauspicious day, That saw his eyelids in oblivion close. No more, at evening, these embowering trees Shall droop their heads to listen to his lay; No more these flowery walks his genius please, Where oft he watch'd the twilight shades decay. Here would he ponder, fir'd with thoughts sublime, On heaven's blue arch, at night's impressive noon; Here trace the latent mysteries of Time, Or list, enraptur'd, to the fierce monsoon! For here at night the ghost of Margaret walk'd, And with the spirit of her Bateman talk'd.
