And see it trac'd with such a tale of woe:
To think that one so young and beautiful,
Was wasting to the grave!
Within yon bower
Of honey-suckle, and the snowy wealth
The mountain ash puts forth to welcome spring,
Her form was found, reclin'd upon a bank;
Where nature's sweet unnurtur'd children bloom'd:
One white arm lay beneath her drooping head,
While her bright tresses twin'd their sunny wreath
Around the polish'd ivory; there was not
A tinge of colour mantling o'er her face;
'Twas like to marble, where the sculptor's skill
Has trac'd each charm of beauty, save the blush.
Serenity so sweet sat on her brow;
So soft a smile yet hover'd on her lips;
At first they thought 'twas sleep—and sleep it was,
The cold long rest of death.
There is one grave, o'er which the cypress bends,
