On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to the Author, and very dear to Him

1.

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
⁠Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb,
⁠And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

2.

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
⁠That clay, where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seiz'd her as his prey;
⁠Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.

3.

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
⁠Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
⁠Not here the Muse her virtues would relate.

4.

But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
⁠Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers,
⁠Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.

5.

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign!
⁠And, madly, Godlike Providence accuse!
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;—
⁠I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.

6.

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
⁠Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
⁠Still in my heart retain their wonted place.