Paddy MacShane/Anna's Urn

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ANNA'S URN.

ENCOMPASS'D in an angel's frame,
⁠An angel's virtues lay:
Too soon did heav'n assert its claim,
⁠And call'd its own away.
My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms,
⁠Can never more return!
What then shall fill these widow'd arms?
⁠Ah me! my Anna's urn.

Can I forget that bliss refin’d,
⁠Which, bless‘d with her, I knew?
Our hearts in sacred bonds entwin‘d,
⁠Were bound by love too true.
That rural train, which once were us‘d,
⁠In festive dance to turn,
So pleas‘d, when Anna they amus‘d,
⁠Now weeping deck her urn.

The soul escaping from its chain,
⁠She clasp‘d me to her breast,
“To part with thee is all my pain!
⁠She cried, then sunk to rest!
While mem‘ry shall her seat retain,
⁠From beateous Anna torn,
My heart shall breathe its ceaseless strain,
⁠Of sorrow o‘er her urn.

There, with the earliest dawn, a dove,
⁠Laments her murder‘d mate:

There Philomela, lost to love,
⁠Tells the pale moon her fate.
With yew and ivy round me spread,
⁠My Anna there I'll mourn;
For all my soul, now she is dead,
⁠Concentres in her urn.