Such were the notes thy once lov'd poet sung, Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Say, is not absence death to those who love?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy sting?
Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clam'rous lapwings feel the leaden death; Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare, They fall, and leave their little lives in air.