October 1794

Oft, when thy hands shall slip this rosy string, Her may its nets to thy remembrance bring, Who, as she wove them, still invok’d for thee A fate from care, regret, and anguish free; Each night, that health and peace may seal thine eyes, Each morning prove a harbinger of joys, That life, which must pass on, may glide, the while, Mild as thy glance and cheering as thy smile!