e,
When tempest toss'd on life's rough sea.
Fond mother, where's the rosy child
Which once upon thy bosom smiled?--
In her thou daily didst rejoice,--
She caught her language from thy voice;
When she had learned to lisp thy name,
New love with those sweet accents came.
Soon did this bud of promise bloom,
But oh, it blossomed for the tomb!--
Each art, which thy fond care has tried,
The fell destroyer's power defied.
And brothers, ye, too, weeping stand--
Pale death has robbed your household band
Well may stern manhood melt in tears,
The playmate of your early years
Before you lies in death's cold sleep--
'Tis manly, then, for you to weep.
No more will little Walter share
Her love, her counsel, and her care;
And thou, lone sister, now must feel
What simple words can ne'er reveal;--
Thou callest many sister yet,
In tones which they will ne'er forget;
Yet no such love their bosoms fill,
As throbbed in that which now lies still.
You oft, in love, each other greet,
But no such melting glances meet,
As ever have been wont to shine,
When Ellen's speaking eyes met thine.
Those eyes, which such pure love revealed,
In death's deep slumbers now are sealed;
But I have watched the cloud that fades,
While earth was wrapped in twilight shades,
And quickly found the loss repaid
By beauties which the heavens displayed;
Anon, a sweet and pensive light
Came stealing o'er the brow of night,--
The stars shone out from depths profound,
Like bands of angels hov'ring round,
Who look from off each lofty seat,
To watch lest snares beguile our feet.
Though this was airy fancy's dream,
Yet still it doth an emblem seem,
Of her who lies before us now
With such calm beauty on her brow.
Death's icy fingers plucked the rose,
But could not steal the grand repose
Which adds such pure, celestial charms
To this pale form, clasped in his arras.
Though fancy far from reason strayed,
When stars were guardian angels made,
Yet she, perchance, is one indeed:
The spirit, from its bondage freed,
May still be hov'ring, while they sleep,
Around those friends who o'er her weep.

AN EPITAPH

Composed For Mrs. M.G.M. of Jay.

"We lay her in the earth, and from her fair
And unpolluted flesh may violets spring."
_Shakspeare_.

With flowing tears, dear cherished o