Why from my yoke no respite must I know?
Why gush these tears, and never cease to flow?
Ah, me! what sought my eyes,
When, fixed in fond surprise,
On her angelic face
I gazed, and on my heart each charm impress’d?
From whence nor force nor art the sacred trace
Shall e’er remove, till I the victim rest
Of Death, whose mortal blow
Shall my pure spirit free, and this worn frame lay low.