And there, beside the village-spire,
My mother's honour'd ashes sleep,
Who bade my noble hopes aspire,
Who also taught me first to weep,
When, with a kiss so cold and mild,
She whisper'd, 'I must die, my child.'
Oh! fitted for a world more pure,
Sweet spirit, who would wish thy stay,
To witness woes thou could'st not cure,
And dimm'd with clouds thy evening ray;