That springs to perfection, and dies;
She bloom’d, and then sick’ned—but shall we bewail;
The grave of the pure is the path to the skies.
The victim of woe and despair,
Her soul now delights in its rest;
And roving with bliss thro’ the regions of air,
Unites in the songs of the blest.
ON A LATE CONNUBIAL RUPTURE.
I sigh, fair injur’d stranger! for thy fate;