The blooming Susan feels the blow,—
Her ruby lips turn deathly pale,—
She cries, Oh! mother, I must go,—
This fatal weapon cannot fail.
The blushing rose forsakes her cheek,—
The lily now usurps its place;—
But still she's patient, mild and meek,
She daily grows in ev'ry grace.
Though fading, yet more lovely still.
She twines around each kindred heart,