For blooming Charlotte, England’s fairest Rose,
In History’s page the tear of pity flows.
Few were the moments of connubial life,
She shar’d the blisses of a happy wife.
But when relentless Death had nipt her bloom,
And hid the faded Rose within the tomb,
O’er her cold grave an Angel waved his wing,
And cried, “O Death, where is thy fatal sting?
From hence she goes; to me the charge is given,”
And in his bosom took the Rose to Heaven.