THOSE eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light,
Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show;
That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright,
Where the rose mantled o'er the living snow;
The rich redundance of that golden hair,
Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day;
That form so graceful, and that hand so fair,
Where now those treasures?—mouldering into clay!
Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn,
Hath young Perfection wither'd in its morn,
Touched by the hand that gathers but to blight!
Oh! how could Love survive his bitter tears?
Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres,
But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless night!