To The Memory Of Mrs. Mary M’kean
by
To yonder new made grave I’ll go,
And there indulge my swelling grief:
There shall the tears of friendship flow,
And give my wounded heart relief.
To yonder grave, oh! muse, repair,
And whilst I breathe my tender sighs,
Attune thy plaintive lyre, for there
The lov’d, the lost Maria lies.
Blest be the ground where thou art laid;
Let no unhallow’d foot presume
Upon thy tufted grave to tread;
No hostile hand profane thy tomb.
Angelic hosts assembled here,
Shall guard the consecrated ground;
In robes of radiant light appear,
And spread seraphic music round.
The winds that thro’ the midnight gloom,
Wild howling o’er the mountains fly;
Shall cease their rage, when near thy tomb,
And pass in plaintive murmurs by.
When at the board with festive glee,
Gay pleasures social bosoms chear;
E’en mirth shall pause to think on thee,
And, thinking, drop a silent tear.
With grateful hearts the poor distress,
Shall to thy grave lamenting go;
Then shall thy hand be duly blest,
That hand which lov’d to soften woe.
Oft when the moon with placid ray
Gleams o’er the dew-bespangled green,
Here shall my silent footsteps stray,
Here shall my pensive form be seen.
Thy worth, dear saint, shall then arise
All bright to contemplation’s view:
Review thy life with weeping eyes,
And weeping strive to copy you,
Remembrance long shall hold thee fast;
Thy form, thy virtues ne’er shall die:
I’ll love thee thus whilst life shall last,
And bless thee with my latest sigh.