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Oh! that my strains were as my subject high! Then would they equal those which swell'd the sky
 * When joyful angels quiring bore
 * Thy spirit to the realms of light,
 * Glad that the mournful hour was o'er
 * While 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 flow
 * From loss of such sweet innocence,
 * To think what pangs their breasts must know
 * Who mourn'd such matchless excellence.

For thou wast pure as is the transient snow That falls as if its whiteness but to show;
 * And fearful lest a longer stay
 * Its virgin purity should stain,
 * Dissolves beneath the fervid ray
 * That draws it up to Heaven again.

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