Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom

                         Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
                         On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
                             But on thy turf shall roses rear
                             Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
                         And the wild cypress wave in tender
                                 gloom:

                         And oft by yon blue gushing stream
                             Shall sorrow lean her drooping head,
                         And feed deep thought with many a dream,
                             And lingering pause and lightly tread;
                             Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the
                                 dead!

                         Away! we know that tears are vain,
                             That death nor heeds nor hears distress:
                         Will this unteach us to complain?
                             Or make one mourner weep the less?
                         And thou - who tell'st me to forget,
                         Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.