On The Death Of A Lady.

Thy home seemed not of earth - so blest         But there has fall'n a shaft of fate     The dove is stricken; and the nest         She warmed and cheered is desolate.     But fairest not for thee, we mourn:         Blest from thy birth, thou still art so     The tear must dew thine early urn         For him whom thou hast taught to know     The zest of joys - complete, as knows         Thy vital flame, the pang that tost     And changed thee past, where now it glows         Knowing, yet feeling all is lost.     There is a flower of tender white         And, on its spotless bosom, play     The moon's soft beams, one lovely night;         But when appears the morning ray     'Tis shut and withered - even now         Around your lime I see it wave; [FN#27]     'Tis pure, and fresh, and fair, as thou         And sinks in beauty to its grave.     [FN#27]    The white convolvulus; it blossoms just after sun-set, and is seen in great abundance entwining the lime-hedges, about the plantations of Cuba.