A placid smile is on her brow;—
Does filial love still linger there?
Or does her convoy angel now
Breathe heavenly music in her ear?
Long ere a springing blade appeared
Upon that daughter's new made grave,—
Consumption cries, Oh! be prepared,
Another blooming form I crave.
A youthful son was now his prey,—
Whose rising merits win each heart,—