But now those flowers of life have lost their bloom,

Faint all their beauty, cold their healing breath,

No object fills my eye but yonder tomb,

No sound awakes me but the name of death.

When in the world, I bear a look serene,

And veil the gloomy temper of my grief;

Sick with restraint at evening quit the scene,

To find in tears and solitude relief.

Parent of Hope and Fancy! thoughtful Night!

Why are these nurselings absent from thy bower,

While Memory, with sullen, strange delight,

Stalks lonely centinel the live-long hour?

O dear Sophia! could we e'er forget,

Such fair endowments and unsullied worth,

Thy partial friendship calls for our regret,

And selfish feeling gives remembrance birth.

How often when this trembling hand essays

Thy lov'd resemblance once again to trace,

The portrait thought in mimic life arrays

With all the sweet expression of thy face;

Art may its symmetry and beauty show,

A look, a character, the pencil seize,

Give to the form where youthful graces glow,

An air of pensive dignity and ease,

But warmth of feeling and sensation fine,

By mild reserve from common eyes conceal'd,

The ray of genius and the heart benign,

In artless gaiety so oft reveal'd—

All these are lost; no looks can now arise,

Like those which every little act endear'd,

Which even in the stranger's careless eyes

Like innocence from other worlds appear'd!

Oft have I fear'd the breath of foolish praise,

Might taint the lily which so humbly grew;

That flattery's sun might shoot delusive rays,

Impede her progress, and distract her view.

But vain the fear—for she remain'd the same,

To outward charms indifferent or blind,

Heedless alike of either praise or blame,

If it respected not her heart and mind.

Rich in historic lore, the poet's lyre

Had not, though screen'd by time, forsaken hung,

She felt and studied with a kindred fire,

The lofty strain immortal Maro sung.

She knew—but why essay to trace her thought

Through its wide range, describe her blooming youth,

The heart whose feelings were so finely wrought,

Its meek ambition, and its love of truth?

All that parental-vanity desires,

All that the friend can muse upon and mourn,

All that the lover's ardent vow inspires,

In thee, Sophia! from the world was torn!

But still we yield thee to no stranger's care;

No unknown foe our tender love bereaves;

Thou goest the angels' hallow'd bliss to share,

A Father thy exalted soul receives!