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!