Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death,
Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb.

Such sounds as these escap'd his lab'ring breast:--
"Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame;
Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest,
And I shall live for love, perchance for fame."
Ah! poor enthusiast!--in the day's decline
A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine!




VERSES TO MISS M. G----,

ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE,

_Which she had presented to the Author a Year before_.


Time, since thou gav'st this flow'r to me,
Has often turn'd his glass of sand;
Perchance 'tis now unknown to thee
That once its breath perfum'd thy hand.

Oh, lovely maid! that thou may'st see
How much thy gifts my care engage,
I've sent the cherish'd flow'r to thee
Without a blemish, but from age.