The young, the lovely Polly is no more.
Her placid eye, bright as the orient day,
Too finely wrought for such a world as this,
Was clos’d by saints, who bore her form away,
Serenely gliding through the realms of bliss.
By fancy form’d I view her from above,
Bending from clouds her parents to implore,
Breathing rich fragrance of seraphic love,
And soft pronouncing, “mourn for me no more.
“Look on religion’s wide-extended page,