Epitaph for a Young Lady

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.