Not the deep sigh, which madden'd Sappho gave,
When from Leucate's craggy height she sprung,
Could equal that which gave her to the grave,
The last sad sound that echoed from her tongue.




_SONNET_

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.


Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse
With more than fondness lov'd, for thee she strung
The lyre, on which herself enraptur'd hung,
And bade thee through the world its sweets diffuse.
Oft hath my childhood's tributary tear
Paid homage to the sad, harmonious strain,
That told, alas, too true, the grief and pain,
Which thy afflicted mind was doom'd to bear.
Rest, sainted spirit! from a life of woe,
And tho' no friendly hand on thee bestow
The stately marble, or emblazon'd name,
To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below;
Yet o'er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow,
Deriving vigour from the breath of fame.