In mute affliction slowly drawing near,
Whilst weeping genius, pointing to the sky,
In silent anguish heaves a plaintive sigh?
She seems to take a lingering last farewell,
As down her cheek the pearly teardrops flow,
Of some lamented spirit she lov'd well,
By Fate's inexorable shaft laid low;
And thus half broken-hearted to complain
"When shall we look upon thy like again!"
Poor drooping maid—she mourns the doom of one,