Those more than op’ning morning’s purest sweets,
That sit on rosy lips
Of smiling chastity.
IRREGULAR STANZAS
UPON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
It is vain! and her spirit has fled!
Matilda has sunk in the tomb;
The beauty of Nature lies mix’d with the dead:
Alas! how severe is the doom.
As a lily that blows in the vale,