(Which the Author hopes will live as long as she does.)

Here rests poor Stella 's restless part:
A riddle! but I lov'd her heart.
Thro' life she rush'd a headlong wave,
And never slept, but in her grave.
Some wit, I think, and worth she had:
No faint indeed, nor yet quite mad;
But laugh'd, built castles, rhym'd and sung,
" Was ev'ry thing, but nothing long. "
Some honest truths she would let fall;
But much too wise to tell you all.

From thought to thought incessant hurl'd,
Her scheme was — but to rule the world.
At morn she won it with her eyes,
At night, when beauty sick'ning sighs,
Like the mad Maccdonian cry'd,
What, no more worlds, ye Gods! — and dy'd.