Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep!
For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone
Thy childhood dwells—whose thoughts a record keep
Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone;
Of all thine early grace and gentle worth—
A vernal promise, faded now from earth!
But a bright memory claims a proud regret—
A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs
Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet
Whose soul can number with love’s holy things,