215
ON
THE DEATH OF MRS. MARTINEAU, Senr.
Ye who around this venerated bier
In pious anguish pour the tender tear,
Mourn not!—’Tis Virtue's triumph, Nature's doom,
When honoured Age, slow bending to the tomb,
Earth's vain enjoyments past, her transient woes,
Tastes the long sabbath of well-earned repose.
No blossom here, in vernal beauty shed.
No lover lies, warm from the nuptial bed;
Here rests "the full of days,"—each task fulfilled,
Each wish accomplished, and each passion stilled.
You raised her languid head, caught her last breath,
And cheered with looks of love the couch of death.
