Ah, happier innocent! on whose chaste cheek
The spotless rose of virtue blushes meek;
Come, shed, in mercy shed, a silent tear,
O’er a lost sister’s solitary bier!
She might have bloom’d, like thee, in vernal life!
She might have bloom’d, the fond endearing wife—
The tender daughter! but want’s chilling dew
Blasted each scene hope’s faithless pencil drew!
No anxious friend sat weeping o’er her bed,
Or ask’d the blessing on her little head!