Oh! her beauty seemed fresh and unaltered
As when happy she worked in the mill.
And oft where she lies a bent form can be seen
When the twilight is deep’ning its shadows:
And the sweetest of flow’rets are found on her tomb,
All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows;
Yet who gathers them no one can tell.
—Geo. M. Vickers.
A String of Broken Beads; or, Jingles from Favorite Authors.
Oh, with what pride I used