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Original poems on several subjects

In two volumes. By William Stevenson

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The EPITAPH.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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The EPITAPH.

[Here lies, beneath this moss-encircled stone]

Here lies, beneath this moss-encircled stone,
That form which once the Graces all inspir'd;
In youthful circles joyous oft she shone,
Prais'd by each tongue, by every eye admir'd.

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The Lily, quicken'd by the breath of Spring,
A fair resemblance of her youth display'd;
A zephyr shook around its balmy wing,
To image health, priz'd by the blooming maid.
But lo! not long the Lily's triumphs last,
The snowy beauty of the flow'ry ground;
Soon sweeps abroad the North's inclement blast,
Shrivels her leaves, and scatters them around.
Soon too the lovely emblem is forgot,
The light vain fair borne on phantastic toe;
That such fine spirits sink, she credits not,
That fades Youth's blossom, or Health's roseate glow.
Deluded maid! a slighted languor caught,
The fever's strong delirium soon acquir'd;
From puny Art relief ah vainly sought!
At Hope's false shrine a victim she expir'd.
Let then the eye a passing tribute pay,
That here all Beauty's ruins shortly croud;
That, like the Lily, youth and health decay,
Laid in the tomb, and mantled in a shroud.