On the Death of Mrs. Elizabeth Moody

C AN Verse , that with Invention plays,
That Fancy guides, and Wit betrays,
Catch the bereav'd survivor's tear,
That falls upon the tablet here!

A Husband — but his breath would fail,
Before the sight half told its tale —
Clung to the heart he felt his own,
And lives — to Memory alone .

There , in the solitary bower,
The heart recalls its vanish'd hour,
Which Time on Zephyr's pinions bore,
Till years conniv'd at rest no more.

There , in a cabinet enshrin'd,
The jewels of a polish'd mind,
In all the lustre of their hue,
Are never absent from his view.

That playful note of sparkling Wit,
As on her lips can vibrate yet;
That sympathizing tear again
Wakes to the call and breath of Pain.

That glowing pen, Affection's pride,
The wand of Genius for its guide,
Lives in the mirrour unimpair'd,
Which Time has left, and years have spar'd.

" No more, " said Love, " a wreath pursue,
Which, like the tear, is ever new,
And fills the heart — expressions fail —
The Painter hides them in a veil. "

But Friendship , with intrepid claim,
Shall consecrate Eliza's name;
And through " the vesture of decay "
Oblivion shall resign its prey.

Though steep'd in tears, the myrtle wreath
Shall on these hallow'd relicks breathe,
And Fame shall tell with pride of heart
That she has the immortal part.
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