MY pensive Muse would o’er thy royal bier,
Fair Princess! breathe affliction’s pitying sigh;
Would deck thy hearse with many a flowing tear,
As smiling angels waft thee to the sky.
Yet why, alas! give nourishment to grief?
For heaven mature her beauteous spirit fled;
There wrapt in bliss she ministers relief
To those below that droop the mournful head.
Cease, royal Mother, round her tomb to weep!
Hush, ye fair Sisters, every plaintive breath!
Mourn not that heaven should in oblivion steep
The bitter, ling’ring agonies of death.
Though sadness glooms not in the realms of light,
Where all her pangs are heal’d with heavenly balm!
Should sweet AMELIA bend her blissful sight,
Our tears alone may violate her calm.
(Emma Lyon)
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