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LINES, ON THE FATE OF A YOUNG GIRL.
Mark those tresses, erst so golden,
Sadly weeping plenteous tears;
Mark that cheek, the rose's rival,
Like the shroud the hue it bears.
See those lips, which shamed the ruby,
Fled the witching smile they bore;
And those eyes, now fixed and fireless,
Gone the enchanting light they wore.
Mark that brow, by bounteous nature
Stamped with dignity untold—
Once surpassing marble's whiteness,
Now 'tis more than marble cold.
Alas! forsaken, lifeless, lonely,
Strangers all around thee press;
Tearless eyes are gazing on thee,
Will no one mourn? none redress?
Far from childhood's haunts and kindred,
None are near to mourn thy doom;
Distant all, no clust'ring maidens,
Loved in life, dispel death's gloom.
