Sonnet XVII
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!
