But could not steal the grand repose
Which adds such pure, celestial charms
To this pale form, clasped in his arras.
Though fancy far from reason strayed,
When stars were guardian angels made,
Yet she, perchance, is one indeed:
The spirit, from its bondage freed,
May still be hov'ring, while they sleep,
Around those friends who o'er her weep.




AN EPITAPH


Composed For Mrs. M.G.M. of Jay.

"We lay her in the earth, and from her fair
And unpolluted flesh may violets spring."
_Shakspeare_.

With flowing tears, dear cherished one,
We lay thee with the dead;
And flowers, which thou didst love so well,
Shall wave above thy head.

Sweet emblems of thy dearer self,
They find a wintry tomb;
And at the south wind's gentle touch,