Her form is slowly gliding to the sea,
Her soul to Paradise its way is winging,
Upon her pallid face serenity
Shows that to earth her heart was never clinging;
To all the elements her corse may be
Abandoned, but the seraph choir is singing,
And chaplets fairer than the flow'rs of Eden
In Heav'n shall deck the martyr'd Christian maiden.
Still o'er her drifting form a circlet golden
Upon the river sheds its lambent rays,