University of Virginia Library

When youthful Charms are blasted in their Bloom,
And Wit and Beauty sink into the Tomb,
'Tis just for ev'ry friendly Heart to share
The Father's Anguish, and the Husband's Care;
Then let none wonder at a Stranger's Sighs.
And Tears that flow from sympathetic Eyes,
So great a Loss, unknown to all Relief,
Claims the free Gift of universal Grief.

Oh! Fate severe! when Piety can't save
The destin'd Fair one, from the cruel Grave!
She, in whom Nature's noblest Gifts combin'd,
A graceful Person, and a lovely Mind,
In all the Pride of Youth resign'd her Breath,
An early Victim to devouring Death.
Hence learn, ye Fair, nor too much prize your Charms,
None can resist this gloomy Tyrant's Arms:
How should vain Beauty hope his Wrath to stay,
When such transcendent Goodness fell a Prey!
See, each revolving Sun, some sudden Blow
Gives a new Triumph to th' insulting Foe.
Where's then the Shape so exquisitely true?
The snowy Brightness, and Vermillion Hue?
When rueful Death has once a Conquest made,
The Lillies wither, and the Roses fade:
From the pale Face the laughing Graces fly,
And Loves, that wanton'd in the sparkling Eye.
But conscious Virtue scorns his short-liv'd Pow'r,
Our only Succour in the fatal Hour:
This calm'd each Terror and remov'd each Fear,
From the fair Saint, her Dissolution near.
She, when Death call'd, attended, undismay'd,
And the quick Summons chearfully obey'd,
With Patience underwent the bitter Strife,
The last best Duty of a well spent Life,
So may the gayest at the Park or Play
Be by To-morrow's Dawning snatch'd away
And from the sprightly Ball or Masquerade,
Sleep in the Marble's cold Embraces laid.
For soon or late at the appointed Day
We all must tread this melancholy Way.
Then happy they, who quit this irksome State,
E'er they know Vice, or feel the Storms of Fate.
Such this bright Pattern in the Bloom of Age
Left all the Tumults of this mortal Stage;
And though so short her Dwelling was with Man,
With ample Virtues fill'd her narrow Span.
Why shed we then unprofitable Tears,
For one so old in Works, though green in Years?
Lament the Sinners short-liv'd Date, betimes
Snatch'd in the May-day of his blooming Crimes;
Whose unrepented Follies well might bear
Ages of Sighs and penitential Pray'r.
Who knows what Evils Fortune had in Store,
Had Heav'n not sent her to a safer Shore?
In Death we find a Haven lull'd in Peace,
Where the Winds deaden, and the Tempests cease.
Here she enjoys, from Trouble ever free,
The unmov'd Calmness of a Summer's Sea.
Here Malice sleeps, the lying Tongue is still,
No envious Pow'r to thwart her pious Will.
Add those precarious Ills, that she has fled
By a quick Passage to the silent Dead,
Distempers rising from fallacious Food,
And Poisons lurking in the tainted Blood:
The slow Consumption and Rheumatic Pains,
The Fever raging in the throbbing Veins;
Then render Thanks to Heav'n, that let her go
So Young, so Virtuous, from a State of Woe.