I saw her amid pleasure's gayest haunts—
Her black hair bound with roses, which grew pale
By the vermilion of the cheek's rich dye;
And when she mov'd, those ebon tresses wav'd
Upon the air, as love's wing had just past
And fann'd them: such a lip of sweets and smiles
Young Hebe wore, when treading 'mid the stars,
Herself a fairer one, she held the cup
Of sparkling nectar. She was, 'mid the gay,
The gayest of the throng; in her dark eye,
Where soul and softness mingled, there was mirth,
Gleaming like light from the long shadowy lash,
Which on it hung like night—but such a night
As when the moon look'd forth in loveliness.
She mov'd amid the dance, light as the wind,
At which the tremulous aspen scarcely bends.
Beautiful girl! ah, who that saw thee there—
Joy in thy steps, and smiles upon thy brow,
Thy cheek so warm with life and gaiety—
Could deem those smiles, those blushes were thy last!
Pass but a little moment, and those eyes
Would close in endless sleep! that even now
The hand of death is on thee!——
There is the wreath she wore; the roses yet
Retain a breath of sweetness; but the brow
Round which they twin'd, is low in the cold grave!