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Poem by Thomas Gent
It is a mournful pleasure to remember the exquisite taste and delight she evinced in the arrangement of a Bouquet; and how often she wished that, hereafter, she might appear to me as a beautiful flower!
Oh! lay me where my Rosa lies, And love shall o'er the moss-crown'd bed, When dew-drops leave the weeping skies, His tenderest tear of pity shed. And sacred shall the willow be, That shades the spot where virtue sleeps; And mournful memory weep to see The hallow'd watch affection keeps. Yes, soul of love! this bleeding heart Scarce beating, soon its griefs shall cease; Soon from his woes the suff'rer part, And hail thee at the Throne of Peace!
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