Within this book, as in a mirror, shines A lovely mind, with ev'ry virtue blest; The purest feeling marks th sweetest lines, That e'er a tender female heart expressed.
Cold is that heart, the book alone remains A faithful record of a breast so pure; The sighs of death were pour'd in these sweet strains, Yet these of death partake not, — these endure.
Fram'd with the fragile breath of sure disease, What noble thoughts life's weakest period gave; A mind of pleasure reft had power to please, And o'er oblivion triumphed at the grave!
