When Genius, Valor, Worth, too soon decays, The world sings vocal with posthumous praise, And o’er the love that fate has sorely tried, Oft have the hearts of pitying mortals sigh’d. What then to thee, oh, hapless maid! is due, Whose form was lovely as thy soul was true? Who fell ere life hope’s promise could impart, Or love’s fruition cheer thy constant heart? As some sweet bird that leaves its nest to fly, With sportive wings along the alluring sky, ’Midst greener scenes and groves of happier song, To wake its wild notes with its kindred throng, Feels the quick shot its gushing bosom smite, Just when it seeks to ease its tiring flight, And ere its glance can tell the ball is sped, Finds the cold sod its blood-encrimson’d bed. Ah, sad for thee! when life’s frail thread was shorn, Few near thee wept, though many liv’d to mourn. No arm was there to stay the savage deed, That left thy form with gory wounds to bleed. No mystic rites from holy tongues were thine, In death’s cold sleep thy beauty to resign— No hearse-drawn train, with mournful steps and slow, Was nigh to yield the accustomed signs of woe, But Peace was priestess o’er the virgin clay, When Nature’s arms embrac’d thee in decay, While duteous there a remnant of the brave, Bent o’er thy dust, and form’d thy humble grave, And ’neath the pine-tree’s unfrequented shade, Lone and compos’d thy blood-stain’d relics laid, Where from the boughs the wild-bird chim’d its song, And gurgling leap’d the fountain’s stream along— In earth’s green breast by warrior hands enshrin’d,— Beauty in earth by Valor’s side reclined! But unforgetful Grief her debt hath paid, In sad remembrance of thy lovely shade; And friendly hands have op’d this cell of sleep, Thy dust to honor, and thy fall to weep, And maiden trains from village hamlets nigh, Have borne thy relics thence to where they lie, There rear’d the slab that tells thy joyless doom, Points to the skies, and shows thy hallow’d tomb. Ne’er shall thy fate around thee fail to draw, Hearts ever true to Nature’s kindliest law— To trace the spot whereon thy bosom bled, Where Guilt to Death Life’s sinless semblance wed— Where startling shrieks in savage madness rose, That rous’d the panther from his lair’s repose— Where stood dismay’d the feeble hand that bore Thy form where savage hands thy ringlets tore— Where flows the fount, and still the pine-tree stands, Notch’d by the bird’s beak, and the stranger’s hands, Rocking its wide boughs to the shivering gale, The time-worn witness of thy chilling tale.