I saw thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale Decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away.

-Moore

And thou art dead,
The gifted, the beautiful,
Thy spirit's fled!
Thou, the fairest 'mong ten thousand, art no more!
Death culls the sweetest flowers to grace the tomb-
He hath touched thee-thou hast left us in thy bloom!
How oft amid the virgin throng,
I've seen thee, fairest, dance along;
And thine eyes, so brightly dark,
Gleaming like the diamond's spark;
But now how dim
Those orbs are left-
By Death bereft
Of their brightness,
And that neck of its whiteness,
Where once the curling tress descended,
Where once the rose and lily blended,
As the warm blush came and flew;
Now o'er all hath Death extended
His pallid hue-
Sallow and blue;
And sunken 'neath the purple lid,
Those eyes are hid,
Once so bright;
And the shroud, as thine own pure spirit white,
All that remains of what was once so lovely, holds!
In its snowy folds-
Then fare thee well, sweet one,
Thy bright, thy fleeting race is run,
And with the flowers thou art sleeping,
And o'er thy grave the friends are weeping
Of thine early day.
Thou wert lovely-aye, as Spring,
When birds and blossoms bloom and sing,
The happy, happy hours welcoming
Of gentle May.
In the past I see thee shining,
Like the star of tender morning,
A day of love and peace divining,
And the sky of Hope adorning.
Smiles-that dimpled mouth are wreathing;
Music-those rosy lips are breathing,
Like morn glancing through the sky,
Like the zephyr's softest sigh.
Ah, then, who'd dream that aught so fair,
Was fleeting as the Summer air?
Yet in that hour
Disease, so deceitful, stole upon thee,
As blight upon a flower;
And thou art dead!
And thy spirit's past away.
Like a dew-drop from the spray,
Like a sunbeam from the mountain,
Like a bubble from the fountain;
And thou art now at rest,
In thy damp, narrow cell,
With the clod heap'd o'er thy breast;
Fare thee well!