Some, when they would appear to mourn,
The tomb like drawing-room adorn;
And foreign flowers of richest scents
Bestrew the way to compliments.
Grief never calls on Grace or Muse,
Nor dares the Fates and Stars accuse,
Demanding clamorously why
They doom’d one so beloved to die.
In her dim chamber solitary
She sits; her low tones little vary;
Now on the earth her eyes are bent,
Now heavenward raised implore content.