Sleep, gentle maid, in pity's ear
The fond complaint of love shall flow,
While genius, drooping o'er thy bier,
Sigh to the breeze his speechless woe.
Favorite of hope! each lovely grace
To soothe the suffering soul was thine;
Nor could the eye but choose to trace
Thy mind of heaven, thy form divine.
Soft be the turf, that clothes thy breast,
There choicest flowers their blossoms wave;
For thou wast spotless, as the blest,
And thou shalt charm beyond the grave.
1803.