Nor wert thou only by thy kindred wept,--
Young mother! gentle daughter! cherish'd wife!
Deep in her memory France hath fondly kept
The records of thy unassuming life:
Oft shall the statue heroine bring to mind,--
As pale it gleams beneath the light of day,
In all the thoughtful grace by thee design'd,--
The worth and talent which have pass'd away!
Oft shall the old, who see thy child pass by,
Smiling and glad, despite his orphan'd lot,
Look on him with a blessing and a sigh;
As one who suffers loss, yet feels it not,
But lifting up his innocent eyes in prayer,
Vaguely imagines Heaven,-foretaught that thou art THERE!