Sees us deplore the wife—the mother—friend—
Sees fell despair our wretched bosoms rend!
Oh death!—thy dire inexorable dart
Of every blessing has bereft my heart!
Better to have died like her, in hope of rest,
Than live forlorn, and life and light detest.—
In hope of rest? ah no! her fervent pray’r
Was that her soul, when once dissolv’d in air
Might, conscious of its pre-existent state,
On those she lov’d alive, benignly wait,—