Say, love, in all thy spring of fame,
When the high heaven itself was thine,
When piety confess' d the flame,
And ev'n thy errors were divine,
Did ever muse's hand so fair,
A glory round thine temple spread;
Did ever life's ambrosial air
Such perfume o'er thine altars shed?
Writing to his mother on the 22nd August, 1805, Moore says:—"Poor Mrs. Tighe is ordered to Madeira, which makes me despair of her, for she will not go, and another winter will inevitably be her death." She lingered, however, for five years longer, travelling about in search of health, and died at Woodstock on the 24th March, 1810. Two days before her death she said—"I have long struggled with the fear of death, but I can now feel that God is the strength of my heart and my portion for ever."
She is buried in the churchyard of Inistioge, where a monument, attributed to Flaxman, has been erected to her memory. Her death drew forth from Moore the following touching lines: —
I saw thy form in youthful prime.
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
