Sigh'd in his gales, and murmur'd in his tides,
Waved o'er his fringed brink a deeper gloom,
And bow'd his alders o'er MILCENA'S tomb.


[_O'er Milcena's tomb_. l. 308. In memory of Mrs. French, a lady who to
many other elegant accomplishments added a proficiency in botany and
natural history.]


"Oft with sweet voice She led her infant-train,
310 Printing with graceful step his spangled plain,
Explored his twinkling swarms, that swim or fly,
And mark'd his florets with botanic eye.--
"Sweet bud of Spring! how frail thy transient bloom,
"Fine film," she cried, "of Nature's fairest loom!
315 "Soon Beauty fades upon its damask throne!"--
--Unconscious of the worm, that mined her own!--
--Pale are those lips, where soft caresses hung,
Wan the warm cheek, and mute the tender tongue,
Cold rests that feeling heart on Derwent's shore,
320 And those love-lighted eye-balls roll no more!

--HERE her sad Consort, stealing through the gloom
Of
Hangs in mute anguish o'er the scutcheon'd hearse,
Or graves with trembling style the votive verse.

325 "Sexton! oh, lay beneath this sacred shrine,
When Time's cold hand shall close my aching eyes,