ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BOWES
By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
"Hail, happy bride! for thou art truly bless'd,
Three months of rapture crown'd with endless rest.
Merit like yours was Heav'n's peculiar care,
You lov'd—yet tasted happiness sincere:
To you the sweets of love were only shown,
The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown.
You had not yet the fatal change deplor'd
The tender lover for th' imperious lord,
Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings,
Nor wept that coldness from possession springs,
Above your sex distinguish'd in your fate,
You trusted—yet experienc'd no deceit.
Soft were your hours, and wing'd with pleasure flew,
No vain repentance gave a sign to you,
And if superior bliss heav'n can bestow,
With fellow-angels you enjoy it now."