on the Death of a Young Lady who was Drowned in the Ohio river

While the rose on thy cheek was in ruddiest bloom,
And pleasure beam'd bright in thine eye —
While the whispers of Hope promised rapture to come,
Thou wert summon'd, Eliza, to die!

Didst thou die on thy couch, wet with love's holy tear?
By the hand of disease didst thou fall?
Did kindred and weeping friends throng round thy bier,
And shroud thee in death's sable pall?

Alas! there was no one to mourn o'er thine end,
Or consign thy pale form to the grave;
Afar from thine home and each dearly lov'd friend,
Thou didst perish, poor girl, on the wave!

The Ohio's dark billows roll over thy corse;
Thou art gone in thy youth's fairest bloom;
And the murmur of waters, wild, mournful and hoarse,
Sound, to Fancy, a dirge o'er thy doom.