VI

The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,

      Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,

      And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;

      Most musical of mourners, weep anew!

      Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,

      The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew

      Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste;

The broken lily lies-the storm is overpast.