Oh! that my strains were as my subject high!
Then would they equal those which swell'd the sky
When joyful angels quiring bore
Thy spirit to the realms of light,
Glad that the mournful hour was o'er
While yet it struggled for its flight.
For, as thy friends the bed of death stood nigh,
Attending seraphs heav'd the pitying sigh,
To think what tears, what griefs, must flow
From loss of such sweet innocence,
To think what pangs their breasts must know
Who mourn'd such matchless excellence.
For thou wast pure as is the transient snow
That falls as if its whiteness but to show;
And fearful lest a longer stay
Its virgin purity should stain,
Dissolves beneath the fervid ray
That draws it up to Heaven again.
And yet, that last, that melancholy hour
Rais'd thee from earth to life, immortal flower!
