And triumph o’er the “creeping worm”
That sullies all things—pale Decay!
Thy features ne’er can pass away![2]
A nobler Trophy far is thine,
Than “storied urn,” by stranger hands,
Rear’d (in thy now adopted clime),
And higher reverence commands;
These forms—to which thine Art has lent
Life’s truth—shall be thy monument!
Mrs. Cornwell Baron-Wilson.