On The Death Of A Lady.

Thy home seemed not of earth - so blest

But there has fall'n a shaft of fate

The dove is stricken; and the nest

She warmed and cheered is desolate.

But fairest not for thee, we mourn:

Blest from thy birth, thou still art so

The tear must dew thine early urn

For him whom thou hast taught to know

The zest of joys - complete, as knows

Thy vital flame, the pang that tost

And changed thee past, where now it glows

Knowing, yet feeling all is lost.

There is a flower of tender white

And, on its spotless bosom, play

The moon's soft beams, one lovely night;

But when appears the morning ray

'Tis shut and withered - even now

Around your lime I see it wave; [FN#27]

'Tis pure, and fresh, and fair, as thou

And sinks in beauty to its grave.

[FN#27]    The white convolvulus; it blossoms just after sun-set, and is seen in great abundance entwining the lime-hedges, about the plantations of Cuba.