With beads the night, in gracious acts the day,
So wore her youth, so wears her age away.
Now cease, my lay! thy mournful task is o’er;
Irza, farewell! I wake thy lute no more.
“Was such her fate? and did her days thus creep
So sad, so slow, till came the long last sleep?
And did for this her hands with roses twine
The Saviour’s altars and the Virgin’s shrine?
Pure, beauteous, rich, did all these blessings tend,
But from the world in prime of life to send