ON THE DEATH OF MRS. JACKSON.
“As wintry blasts succeed the summer’s bloom,
And summer suns give place to winter’s gloom;
As to morn’s radiance o’er creation spread,
The night succeeds, when every ray is fled;
Or as the heart, but erst with joy elate,
To sorrow turns beneath some stroke of fate;
So a joy’d nation Fate has bid to turn
Its smiles of joy to tears o’er Virtue’s urn.
Sacred the numbers breathed in Virtue’s name.