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.