Page:Adelaide.pdf/103

Rh Half hidden by the violets, which breathe Their fragrance o'er thy head; thy snowy brow Is clear and open as a shadeless sky: There are no records there to tell of griefs, That came like blights in spring, or winter storms Of tortured feelings, withering cares and joys, Whose end was bitterness; but here are found Pure innocence and love, and happiness.