Epitaph on a young Lady

Too mild a soul for our rough clime, Ascend thy native skies. Flee from the woes of sinful time, Thy virtue never dies.

But sweet Camelia, wilt thou fall, And shall no sorrows flow, We must resign when heav'n does call, But yet we feel the blow.

Thy precious dust in hope shall rest, Of seeing fairer days, Thy spirit triumph with the blest, In endless songs of praise.