Thy melody has ceased to charm,
A nation mourns for thee.
Loved songstress! whither art thou fled?
Too lately known,—too early dead,—
Thy notes have shed a light around thy lowly head.
What though, alas! no length of days
May wait a fame like thine;
Yet will the memory of thy years
Be steeped in many a Briton's tears,
A watchword and a spell amid thy bold compeers.