While to her father's hut, like some fair gleam
Of sunlight, with some heavenly thought, she hied,
And now both day and night, how sorely sighed,
And inly groaned the poor bereaved maid,
Nor could restrain strong nature's gushing tide,
That in the dark, cold grave, her love was laid;—
Disconsolate, she moved along the leafy glade.
Pausing beside her Smith's imagined tomb,
Weeping, by moonlight pale, she strewed fair flowers,
To wither o'er him, emblems of his bloom