Sweet Songstress! whom the melancholy Muse With more than fondness lov'd; For thee she strung The lyre, on which herself enraptur'd hung, And bade thee through the world it's sweets diffuse. Oft hath my childhood's tributary tear Paid homage to the sad harmonious strain, That told, alas! too true, the grief and pain Which thy afflicted mind was doom'd to bear. Rest, sainted Spirit! from a life of woe; And though no friendly hand on thee bestow The stately marble, or emblazon'd name, To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below, Yet, o'er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow Deriving vigour from the breath of Fame.
