It is a mournful pleasure to remember the exquisite taste and
delight she evinced in the arrangement of a Bouquet; and how
often she wished that, hereafter, she might appear to me as a
beautiful flower!
Oh! lay me where my Rosa lies,
And love shall o'er the moss-grown bed,
When dew-drops leave the weeping skies.
His tenderest tear of pity shed.
And sacred shall the willow be,
That shades the spot where virtue sleeps;
And mournful memory weep to see
The hallow'd watch affection keeps.
Yes, soul of love! this bleeding heart
Scarce beating, soon its griefs shall cease;
Soon from his woes the sufferer part,
And hail thee at the Throne of Peace