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Lettered on facing page: "48 | It call'd her tender soul by break of bliss, | From the first blossom, from the buds of joy-- | Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves | In this inclement clime of human life. | Sweet harmonist! and beautiful as sweet-- | And young as beautiful--and soft as young-- | And gay as soft--and innocent as gay-- | And happy, if aught happy here, as good! | For fortune fond had built her nest on high. | Like birds quite exquisite of note and plume, | Transfix'd by fate who loves a lofty mark, | How from the summit of the grove she fell | And left it inharmonious! all its charm | Extinguish'd in the wonders of her song! | Her song still vibrates in my ravish'd ear | Still melting there, and with voluptuous pain | O to forget her! thrilling through my heart! | Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy! this group | Of bright ideas, flowers of paradise | As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind, | Kneel, and present it to the skies as all | We guess of heaven: and these were all her own, | And she was mine; and I was--was!--most blest-- | Gay title of the deepest misery! | As bodies grow more pond'rous robb'd of life; | Good lost weighs more in grief, than gain'd in joy: | Like blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm, | Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay; | And if in death still lovely, lovelier there | Far lovelier! pity swells the tide of love."