Start not, nor tremble at the Sight of this;
It comes not written from the Realms of Bliss:
'Tis true, you see, your once--lov'd Roydon's Hand;
Thence may conclude from Heav'n some high Command;
Conscious perhaps of your celestial Frame,
You think you're call'd to Worlds from whence you came.
Not so--but ere her Soul began its Flight,
She thought of you, and staid a--while to write;
Kindly for me her dying Suit address'd:
Then view it, Madam, as her last Request.

Mary Barber

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-right-honourable-the-lady-kilmorey/