ON THE

DEATH OF A LADY.

SWEET spirit! if thy airy sleep

Nor sees my tears nor hears my sighs, Then will I weep, in anguish weep,

Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes. But if thy sainted soul can feel,

And mingles in our misery;
Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal
Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,
But sullen clouds the day deform:
Like thee was that young, orient beam,
Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not form'd for living here,

So link'd thy soul was with the sky;

Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,

We thought thou wert not form'd to die.