Epitaph for Clara Webster

There’s a dismal sound falls on the ear,

          The toll of a funeral bell!

And in every eye these stands a tear,

As the deep and mournful knell they hear

          Of ONE they once knew well.

Poor child! how different yester even

          Were the sounds that spoke thee nigh!

The bosoms, then with rapture heaving,

In silent sorrow now are grieving,

          And the ‘bravo’ is hush’d by the sigh.

Oh ! who remembers the ‘chosen bride’

          As she floated on the water,

Can think that so soon he must mourn beside

The coffin and corpse of the ‘Harem’s Pride’,

And ENGLAND’S OWN fair daughter.

In the pride of thy youth, and the zenith of fame,

          Thou has flown from the earth-poor girl!

Though thou’st left behind thee a deathless name,

May thy heart be wrapp’d in a holier flame

          Than that of the ‘Harem’s Pearl’.

No fairer form-no lighter limb-

          To mortal e’er was given!

From the glories of earth, so poor, so dim,

GOD grant thee the wings of a cherubim,

          To waft thee into Heaven!

Master Harry