Her sorrows are numbered—no longer she weeps,
Every pang she endured is requited;
With endless delight, and in silence she sleeps,
For in death with her love she’s united.
Like Sidney he died, but his mem’ry shall live
In the bosoms of those who deplored him;
And Pity her purest of dew-drops shall give
To the sorrows of those who adored him.
For he loved—was beloved—but alas! in his bloom,
The ordeal of fate here sore tried him;