Elizabeth Smith

Cotswoldia, "On reading the Fragments in Prose and Verse, by Elizabeth Smith" New Monthly Magazine 4 (January 1816) 519.

O, more than mortal, Albion's fairest flow'r!
For thee, the Muse, her trembling chord essays:
Wakes the wild strain at eve's congenial hour,
And waits the object of her fondest praise.

Tho' crown'd with light, assign'd to radiant spheres,
Thy lot ethereal, scarce allows to mourn;
True to thy worth, the ties of happier years,
The tear of nature still bedews the urn.

Torn from the shades that charm'd the vernal morn,
'Twas thine, belov'd, unnumber'd pangs to share;
'Twas thine to soothe, in mutual ills forlorn,
The varying anguish of parental care.

But, ah! no more to gloom the changing sphere,
Shall grief for thee, her stormy scenes display;
Or fond Affection's sweetest smiles endear
The toiling paths of life's uncertain day.

But o'er thy grave, and round thy sainted shrine,
Etherial forms the duteous meed shall bring;
With fairy hands, in various wreaths entwine,
The op'ning graces of the breathing spring.

There village maids shall mourn thy early doom,
Where ev'ning Cynthia lights the sleeping vale;
And start to hear, amid the peaceful gloom,
The voice of music melting on the gale.