Hope, ease, delight, the thoughts of dying gave, Till Lucy spoke with fondness of the grave; She smiled with wasted form, but spirit firm, And said, she left but little for the worm. As toll’d the bell, “There’s one,” she said, “hath press’d Awhile before me to the bed of rest;” And she beside her with attention spread 300 The decorations of the maiden dead. While quickly thus the mortal part declined, The happiest visions fill’d the active mind; A soft, religious melancholy gain’d Entire possession, and for ever reign’d; On holy writ her mind reposing dwelt, She saw the wonders, she the mercies felt; Till in a bless’d and glorious reverie, } She seem’d the Saviour as on earth to see, } And, fill’d with love divine, th’ attending } friend to be; } 310 Or she, who trembling, yet confiding, stole Near to the garment, touch’d it, and was whole; When, such th’ intenseness of the working thought, On her it seem’d the very deed was wrought; She the glad patient’s fear and rapture found, The holy transport, and the healing wound; This was so fix’d, so grafted in the heart, That she adopted, nay became, the part. But one chief scene was present to her sight: Her Saviour resting in the tomb by night; 320 Her fever rose, and still her wedded mind Was to that scene, that hallow’d cave, confined-- Where in the shade of death the body laid, There watch’d the spirit of the wandering maid; Her looks were fix’d, entranced, illumed, serene, In the still glory of the midnight scene; There at her Saviour’s feet, in visions bless’d, Th’ enraptured maid a sacred joy possess’d; In patience waiting for the first-born ray Of that all-glorious and triumphant day. 330 To this idea all her soul she gave, Her mind reposing by the sacred grave; Then sleep would seal the eye, the vision close, And steep the solemn thoughts in brief repose. Then grew the soul serene, and all its powers, Again restored illumed the dying hours; But reason dwelt where fancy stray’d before, And the mind wander’d from its views no more; Till death approach’d, when every look express’d A sense of bliss, till every sense had rest. 340 The mother lives, and has enough to buy Th’ attentive ear and the submissive eye Of abject natures--these are daily told, How triumph’d beauty in the days of old; How, by her window seated, crowds have cast Admiring glances, wondering as they pass’d; How from her carriage as she stepp’d to pray, Divided ranks would humbly make her way; And how each voice in the astonish’d throng Pronounced her peerless as she moved along. 350 Her picture then the greedy dame displays;