“As wintry blasts succeed the summer’s bloom, And summer suns give place to winter’s gloom; As to morn’s radiance o’er creation spread, The night succeeds, when every ray is fled; Or as the heart, but erst with joy elate, To sorrow turns beneath some stroke of fate; So a joy’d nation Fate has bid to turn Its smiles of joy to tears o’er Virtue’s urn. Sacred the numbers breathed in Virtue’s name. Dear still to goodness, if unknown to fame. Be thine the grateful task, O humble muse (Virtue’s thy theme, and thou canst ne’er refuse), Be thine the task that goodness to deplore, Which Death, relentless, bids to be no more; To sing th’ unspotted life, unknown to blame. But every virtue dear to woman’s name; The meek-eyed charity, the guileless heart, The long enduring under sorrow’s smart; The ready friend to comfort in distress; The hand as willing as the heart to bless; The every charm exalted virtue lends, Conferring blessings as its means extends; The mind sincere, unknown to pious guile; Which ne’er deceit, dishonest, could defile, But still intent religion to obey, And as she taught its precepts, led the way; To all its active impulses awake, And virtuous only for fair virtue’s sake. “Scarce was the contest o’er, the victory won, Mysterious Fate! But half thy will was done. From that first hour a nation made its choice Of him in whose great name its sons rejoice, From the first hour the grateful news was hailed, Even from that hour her gentle spirit failed. While o’er the land loud peals of triumph rang, Her milder nature felt the mortal pang Which still protracted, nought availed to save Her suffering nature from an honored grave.