Lines to the Memory of Miss Susan Moore

Forgive the humble Muse that strives to raiseTo thee, bless'd saint, her feeble voice of praise;That dares attempt thy worth to sing,Who now, with sister CherubimsAnd Angels, to the Almighty KingDost ceaseless chant forth heavenly hymns.

Oh! that my strains were as my subject high!Then would they equal those which swell'd the skyWhen joyful angels quiring boreThy spirit to the realms of light,Glad that the mournful hour was o'erWhile yet it struggled for its flight.

For, as thy friends the bed of death stood nigh,Attending seraphs heav'd the pitying sigh,To think what tears, what griefs, must flowFrom loss of such sweet innocence,To think what pangs their breasts must knowWho mourn'd such matchless excellence.

For thou wast pure as is the transient snowThat falls as if its whiteness but to show;And fearful lest a longer stayIts virgin purity should stain,Dissolves beneath the fervid rayThat draws it up to Heaven again.

And yet, that last, that melancholy hourRais'd thee from earth to life, immortal flower!

Oh! how does even grief rejoice,The tear dry in affliction's eye,When memory gives thy parting voiceExclaiming, "Oh! how sweet to die!"