
One from a lucid urn of starry dew
Wash’d his light limbs as if embalming them;
Another clipp’d her profuse locks, and threw
The wreath up him, like an anadem,
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;
Another in her wilful grief would break
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem
A greater loss with one which was more week;
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen check.