Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.
Thou’rt gone from us, bright one!—that thou shouldst die,
And life be left to the butterfly![365]
Thou’rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the bough:
Oh! for the world where thy home is now!
How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here;
How should e’en joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?
[365] A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the monument.