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