How solemn, dear mother! it seems, that the clay,
Relentless and cold, now encumbers the breast,
Where, all helpless, so oft I in infancy lay,
And, soothed by thy lullaby, sobbed me to rest;
That on earth I shall never behold thee again,
Never more feel thy rosy lips pressing my brow,
Or thy fairy hand smoothing my pillow of pain—
Thy affection and love must forever forgo!
My sister sleeps next—lovely blossom of heaven!
Ah, why wast thou summoned so early away?