AND must she die? must merit pass away,
And cold and lifeless leave that blooming clay?
Must here, one narrow space of earth contain
The last dear relics of that angel frame?
It must. Yet shall the cypress spread its shade,
The mournful yet here bend its dropping head;
Spontaneous shall the willow, weeping, rise,
And wave, in sadness, where Ephelia lies.
E'n while the wind moves fighting o'er her grave,
Shall friendship's breast with sighs despondent heave,
And from her eye, diffus'd with silent woe,
The genial tears of pensive sorrow flow.
"Poetry; Impromptu, On a Lady's pointing out the place where she intended to be interred." Farmer's Oracle [Troy, NY]. April 10, 1798: 1 col 1.