(Written in her thirteenth year.)

In yon lone valley where the cypress spreads
Its gloomy, dark, impenetrable shades
The mourning Nine , o'er White's untimely grave
Murmur their sighs, like Neptune's troubled wave.

There sits Consumption, sickly, pale, and thin,
Her joy evincing by a ghastly grin;
There his deserted garlands with'ring lie,
Like him they droop, like him untimely die.