Beneath this stone, that vies with snows pure white,
Reclines a maid of beauty, virtue rare,
Her blushing charms just opening met the light,
Then closed for ever on this world of care.
Oft have I seen the tender rose unfold,
Its budding beauties to the smiling morn,
Oft have I wept at evening, to behold
Its tender blossom by rude tempests torn.
Sigh’d to behold at morn what deck’d the vale
At eve so mangled, scattered by the gale.