Bless'd are the steps of Virtue's queen!
Where'er she moves fresh roses bloom;
And, when she droops, kind Nature pours
Her genuine tears in gentle show'rs,
That love to dew the willow green
That over-canopies her tomb.

But, ah! no willing mourner here
Attends to tell the tale of woe:
Why is yon statue prostrate thrown?
Why has the grass green'd o'er the stone?
Why, 'gainst the spider'd casement drear,
So sullen seems the wind to blow?

How mournful was the lonely bird,
Within yon dark neglected grove!
Say, was it fancy? From its throat
Issu'd a strange and cheerless note;
'Twas not so sad as grief I heard,
Nor yet so wildly sweet as love.

In the deep gloom of yonder dell
Ambition's blood-stain'd victims sigh'd;
While Time beholds, without a tear,
Fell Desolation hov'ring near,
Whose angry blushes seem to tell.
Here Juliana shudd'ring died!