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.