Or, gazing through luxurious tears,
Melt o’er the loved departed form,
Till death’s cold bosom half appears
With life, and speech, and spirit warm.
She looks! she lives! this trancèd hour,
Her bright eye seems a purer gem
Than sparkles on the throne of power,
Or glories wealthy diadem.
Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid
A treasure to my soul has given,