Her EPITAPH. (Which the Author hopes will live as long as she does.)

Her EPITAPH.

(Which the Author hopes will live as long as she does.)

Here rests poor Stella's restless part: A riddle! but I lov'd her heart. Thro' life she rush'd a headlong wave, And never slept, but in her grave. Some wit, I think, and worth she had: No saint indeed, nor yet quite mad; But laugh'd, built castles, rhym'd and sung, "Was ev'ry thing, but nothing long." Some honest truths she would let fall; But much too wise to tell you all.

From thought to thought incessant hurl'd, Her scheme was — but to rule the world. At morn she won it with her eyes, At night, when beauty sick'ning sighs, Like the mad Macedonian cry'd, What, no more worlds, ye Gods! — and dy'd.