Oh! Heliodora! I have known thee long,
And loved thee deeply, and bewailed thee well;
But what avails the tear, the sigh, the song,
To thee, thus sleeping in thy narrow cell?
Alas! my lovely flower is senseless clay!
My budding rose the Grave has torn away!
To thee, oh earth! then let thy mourning son,
O’er whose glad heaven this cloud hath early past,
Whose day is darkened ere its morn be run,
Lift one appeal—his strongest, and his last—