{"newspaper_name": "The Wilmingtonian, and Delaware register.", "edition": "01", "page": "p1", "byline": ""}
The following is short extract from little
poem lately published in London-ssid to b'
from the pen Of young lady Of \ noble f'miiy'
Farewell my lute!-and would that


Had never walked thy burning chords.
Poison has been upon thy sigh,


And fever breathed in thy words.
Yet wherefore, wherefore should blame


Thypowcr, thy spell, my gentlest lutcs
should have been the wretch am,


Had every chord of thine been mute.
1t was my evil star above,
Not,ny sweet lutte, that wrought me wrong,
It was not song that taught me love,
| But it was love that taught me song.
If song be past, and hope undonc,


And pulse and head and heart arc flame;
It is thy work thou faithlcss ono!


But mol will not name thy name!
Song, lutte, wreath all, arc vowed to thee!
Long be their light upon my grave
MY glorious gravc-yon deep blue sea-
shall sleep calm beneath its wave!