Her weary head. Pale, weeping memory recalls
The beaming joys of her life's early day,
Forever fled. Her spirit, palled with gloom,
Anticipates sweet rest but in the tomb—
White wingéd Faith, her guardian one, alway
There hovering nigh. 'Tis morn; dreams she no more;
On Fotheringay's black scaffold now she stands,
Clasping her cherished croslet in her hands,
Anon to die. Her fate the loves deplore;
The angel-loves, eke, waft her soul to heaven;