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The rural train, which once were us'd
In festive dance to turn,
So pleased 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 beautious 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.
