{"newspaper_name": "The Wilmingtonian, and Delaware advertiser.", "edition": "01", "page": "p1", "byline": ""}
White as the fugers Of the hands of death,
Seend but picture of the lonely grave;
Her blighted eyes, once like her native sky,
When natures pencil with its favorite hue
Tints it, and makes it lovely to the sight,
Look'd like the moon DER which a wand'ring


cloud


Had swiftly pass'd and left veil behind
And her pale cheek, which We'd in beauty with
The crimson rose, when health had nurs'd it,
Wither'd at the touch Of the fell menster.
No longer could her tongue, by fcrrrs parch'd,
Call on mothers name, and animate
The dwelling other youth--no more could she
Sound those clear notes which oft indulge the


ear


With many song, that breath'd the language
Of her tender heart-ro ongercould she
Sweep her fair fingers DER her charming Tyre
To cheer the bosom and refine the soul
With pleasure and W, h love-tlle messenger was


near!


Who then can stay the mighty arm of Death9
Can Nan, with all his boastcd strength and fire !
Nol-he's like an insect meath the arm Of God!
Can Wisdom, with all its wonted firmness'-No!
,Tis like star that glitters and departs.
Can Beauty, with loveliest, gayest smiles'
No!---'tis like ,fo,eer on the whirlwnd's wing:
Can Ga,ety?--No! 1t is but Vanity,
Which trcmbles and decays whene'er tits near



He watch'd her stll-he saw her die,
He wept his hours--at last his life away.