Say ye, whose features youthful lustre bloom,
Whose lips exhale Arabia's soft perfume,
Must every gift in silent dust be lost,
No more the wish of man, or female boast?
Ah me! with time must every grace be fled!
She once the pride of all our stage, is dead!
Clos'd are those eyes that every bosom fir'd!
Pale are those charms that every heart inspir'd!
Where now the mien with majesty endu'd,
Which oft surpriz'd a ravish'd audience view'd?