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.