To Count ----, On The Death Of His Wife Poem by Joanna Baillie

WHEN first I saw her, blushing like the rose,
And tints of beauty o'er her forehead spread;
E'en then I trembled for thy coming woes,
And knew her number'd with the early dead.
I saw the treach'rous lustre of her eye,
Which seem'd from youth and love its rays to gain,
Foretell, how soon its living light would lie
Extinguish'd, in the final scene of pain.
On dewy lips of coral's ruddy red,
Round which in dimples soft sweet graces play'd;
I, doubting, fix'd a cause of anxious dread,
And view'd their change, in death's pale hues array'd.
Her faded form, the wreck of beauty's mould,
Her lily hand, which thine so fondly press'd;
That health would ne'er return, these sadly told,
And wak'd suspicions, hope in vain repress'd.
Her playful fancy, mem'ry's happy child
From joys already prov'd, fair visions drew;
I felt them vain, yet such thy fears beguil'd,
And love like thine deserved to find them true.
Thy constant faith, no trying moment chill'd;
Each mournful duty seem'd a willing joy;
Thy patient tenderness each office fill'd,
Nor would for Gabrielle strangers' hands employ.
From day to day, more certain signs exprest,
No genial care could save the drooping flow'r;
Yet foster'd by thy hand, its fragrant breast
Still open'd to endure one ling'ring hour.
That hour expired, thy Gabrielle's spirit fled;
A passing struggle shook her feeble frame,
Pillow'd upon thy arms, she bowed her head,
And flutt'ring, breathed a something like thy name.
Nor doubt her grateful spirit shall retain,
In realms of peace, affections justly thine,
Refined and purified from earthly stain,
Their date eternal, and their flame divine.