Thy home seemed not of earth--so blest--
But there has fall'n a shaft of fate--
The dove is stricken; and the nest
She warmed and cheered is desolate.

But fairest not for thee, we mourn:
Blest from thy birth, thou still art so--
The tear must dew thine early urn
For him whom thou hast taught to know

The zest of joys--complete, as knows
Thy vital flame, the pang that tost
And changed thee past, where now it glows--
Knowing, yet feeling all is lost.

There is a flower of tender white
And, on its spotless bosom, play
The moon's soft beams, one lovely night;
But when appears the morning ray

'Tis shut and withered--even now
Around your lime I see it wave;
'Tis pure, and fresh, and fair, as thou--
And sinks in beauty to its grave.