The lovely maid whose form and face
Nature has deck'd with ev'ry grace,
But in whose breast no virtues glow,
Whose heart ne'er felt another's woe,
Whose hand ne'er smooth'd the bed of pain,
Or eas'd the captive's galling chain;
But like the tulip caught the eye,
Born just to be admir'd and die;
When gone, no one regrets its loss,
Or scarce remembers that it was.

-Susanna Rowson, Charlotte Temple