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Inhal'd the morning's balmy breath,
And sank at eve, in withering death.
Rest here, meek plants, for few intrude
To break this silent solitude.
Yet should some giddy footstep tread
Amid the ashes of the dead,
Still let the hand of rashness spare
These tokens of affection's care,
Nor pluck their cherish'd buds that wave,
In sweetness o'er a Christian's grave.
—White were the locks that thinly spread
Their silver o'er her honor'd head,
And furrows, not to be effaced,
Had time amid her features traced,
Before my earliest strength I tried
In infant gambols by her side;
But yet, no grace or beauty rare,
Were ever to my eye so fair.

Seven times the sun with swift career,
Hath marked the circle of the year,
Since first she pressed her lowly bier;
And seven times sorrowing have I come
Alone and wandering through the gloom,
To pour my lays upon her tomb;
Nor could I bear to see her bed
With brambles and with thorns o'er spread.