Death of a Young Lady

We had a Rose,—its breastWas bright with pearly dew,Nor blight, nor time had stain'd the flower,Yet it sank away from its cherish'd bower,It faded where it grew.

We had a Harp,—'tis gone,We will not say 'tis broken,—No—no,—its tones are deep and high,Where music wraps in melody,Each thought by angels spoken.