In the dire list of agonizing woes,
Severest grief the human bosom knows,
Is the fond husband’s lot, ordain’d to lead
His infants round their mother’s clay-cold bed.
Youth, beauty, virtue, modesty’s mild grace,
Charms of the mind irradiating the face,
Could they, ELIZA, have revers’d thy doom,
Love had not quench’d his torch upon thy tomb.
Too early Angel! be thy bliss the balm
This wound to heal, these rebel griefs to calm,
Till the resigning heart shall cease to mourn
A blighted lily, and a timeless urn!