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.