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 onе mourner weep the less?
And thou -- who tеll'st me to forget
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet