On the Death of a Most Beautiful Young Woman, in Child-Bed

A RE these propitious Hymen's fruits?
Must Beauty feel the shafts of Death?
When Spring the tender blossom shoots,
Why darts the South his tainted breath?

Extinguish'd is the torch of Love —
Near the cold urn these ashes fill:
In anguish mourns the Cyprian Dove,
And Flora's tears their odour spill.

The youthful Brides are struck with fear,
When Love has crown'd the nuptial bed;
In Stella's fate their own they hear,
And willows in the wreath are spread.

But let them smile, and be secure!
Since Death from Love these trophies bore:
His pride must other Nymphs ensure;
He's gone to rest — and strikes no more .
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