ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.
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; [FN#27]
'Tis pure, and fresh, and fair, as thou—
And sinks in beauty to its grave.
[FN#27] The white convolvulus; it blossoms just after sun-set, and is seen in great abundance entwining the lime-hedges, about the plantations of Cuba.