To stone the silent workings of the soul:
Thine all-creative hand, thy matchless skill
Could what unbounded genius plann'd, fulfil.
Hence sprang that grief-wrung form—the languid eye—
The bloodless lip, and look of agony—
That face, where mute contending passions play—
That life of pain, of anguish, and dismay.
To sink she seems beneath the afflictive weight
Of gloomy cares portentous of her fate;—
Yet on her brow still soft Affection beams,