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 I 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.