 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
SHE IS NOT HERE.
She is not here—'t is but her veil of clay
That moulders into dust beneath this stone;
Mary herself, in realms of endless day,
Has put a robe of fadeless glory on.
That moulders into dust beneath this stone;
Mary herself, in realms of endless day,
Has put a robe of fadeless glory on.
This monumental urn is not designed
To tell of beauties withering in the tomb;
Her brightest charms were centred in a mind
Which still survives, and will for ever bloom.
To tell of beauties withering in the tomb;
Her brightest charms were centred in a mind
Which still survives, and will for ever bloom.
Yet may this marble teach the solemn truth.
That virtue only can true bliss impart;
While neither friendship, beauty, health, nor youth,
Can shield the breast from death's insatiate dart.
That virtue only can true bliss impart;
While neither friendship, beauty, health, nor youth,
Can shield the breast from death's insatiate dart.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |