Sonnet V (Boothby)

Death! Thy cold hand the brightest flower has chill'd, That e'er suffused love's cheek with rosy dies; Quench'd the soft radiance of the loveliest eyes, And accents tuned to sweetest music still'd; The springing buds of hope and pleasure kill'd; Joy's cheerful measures changed to doleful sighs; Of fairest form, and fairest mind the ties For ever rent in twain--So Heaven has will'd! Though in the bloom of health, thy arrow fled, Sudden as sure; long had prophetic dread Hung o'er my heart, and all my thoughts depress'd. Oft when in flowery wreaths I saw her dress'd, A beauteous victim seemed to meet my eyes, To early fate a destined sacrifice.