Sonnet V (Boothby)
Death! Thy cold hand the brightest flower has chill'd,
That e'er suffused love's cheek with rosy dies;
Quench'd the soft radiance of the loveliest eyes,
And accents tuned to sweetest music still'd;
The springing buds of hope and pleasure kill'd;
Joy's cheerful measures changed to doleful sighs;
Of fairest form, and fairest mind the ties
For ever rent in twain--So Heaven has will'd!
Though in the bloom of health, thy arrow fled,
Sudden as sure; long had prophetic dread
Hung o'er my heart, and all my thoughts depress'd.
Oft when in flowery wreaths I saw her dress'd,
A beauteous victim seemed to meet my eyes,
To early fate a destined sacrifice.