From the French of General Lallemand

weet maid! whose life the frost of destinyWithered while yet its first spring-leaves were green;Pure, sainted being! from thy home on high,Look with thine eyes of love, upon the sceneWhere, for one little hour, thy spirit moved,A visitant—to love, and to be loved,And where thy song of youth to virtue gaveThe music of its praises—the green bowersOf home and friendship wreathed with fadeless flowers,And made the laurel dearer to the brave.

Still do the hearts that loved thee, beat for theeWarmly, as when they beat beside thy bier.And still to them, of earthly things most dearAnd sacred, is thy pledge of memory—A father’s gift, whose every cherished wordBids the sweet echo of thy song be heard;And fain would bid their sorrows cease to be.Would it could soothe a mother’s griefs but theyAre graven deep, and will not pass away!

Blest spirit! long as at the name aloneOf their Eliza, tears are seen to start,And sighs are breathed, whose birthplace is the heart.Look on thy friends from thine ethereal throne,With smiles that greeted them in happier days;And pardon one to thee, and thine unknown,Whose Stranger hand strews flowers upon thy tomb,For he hath heard the music of thy lays,And who can listen to its tones, nor raiseHis thoughts to thee, and thine Eternal home?