By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver.
_Death_ to the very _life!_ not the closed eye,
Not those small paralytic limbs alone,
But every feather tells so mournfully
Thy fate, and that thy _little_ life has flown.
Manhood forbids that I should weep, and yet
Sadness comes o'er my spirit, and I stand
Gazing intensely, and with mute regret,
Turn from the wonder of the artist's hand.
Exquisite artist! could I praise thee more
Than by the silent admiration? no!
And now I try to praise I must deplore
How feeble is the verse that tells thee so;
But thou art gaining for thyself a fame
Worthy thyself, thy sex, and thy dear father's name!