(Written in her fifteenth year.)

There is a charm in the pallid cheek;
A charm which the tongue can never speak,
When the hand of sickness has wither'd awhile,
The rose which had bloom'd in the rays of a smile.

There is a charm in the heavy eye,
When the tear of sorrow is passing by,
Like a summer shower o'er yon vault of blue,
Or the violet trembling 'neath drops of dew.

It spreads around a shade as light
As daylight blending with the night;
Or't is like the tints of an evening sky,
And soft as the breathing of sorrow's sigh.