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Within yon bower,
Of honey suckle and the snowy wealth
The mountain ash puts forth to welcome spring,
Her form was found reclined upon a bank,
Where nature's sweet unnurtur'd children bloom.
One white arm lay beneath her drooping head,
While her bright tresses twin‘d their sunny wreath
Around the polish’d ivory; there was not
A tinge of colour mantling o’er her lovely face;
’Twas like to marble, where the sculptor's skill
Has traced each charm of beauty but the blush.
Serenity so sweet sat on her brow;
So soft a smile yet hover'd on her lips,
At first they thought 'twas sleep—and sleep it was—
The cold long rest of death.
L.
