62
Oh! hadst thou still on earth remained,
Vision of beauty fair, as brief!
How soon thy brightness had been stained
With passion or with grief!
Now not a sullying breath can rise,
To dim thy glory in the skies.
We rear no marble o'er thy tomb,
No sculptured image there shall mourn;
Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom
Such dwelling to adorn.
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be
The only emblems meet for thee.
Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorned with Nature's brightest wreath,
Each glowing season shall combine
Its incense there to breathe;
And oft, upon the midnight air,
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.
And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose,
