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Felicia Dorothea Hemans - Lines To The Memory Of A Very Amiable Young Lady, Who Died At The Age Of Eighteen
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AT length, departed saint! thy pangs are o`er,
	And earthly suff`ring shall be thine no more;
	Like some young rose-bud, blighted in its May,
	Thy virtues bloom`d, to wither soon away!
	Around thy grave let Spring her off`ring strew,
	Her drooping lilies, bath`d in fragrant dew;
	Emblems of thee, thou sweet, lamented maid;
	Thou spotless lily, doom`d so soon to fade!
	Angelic sweetness, piety refin`d,
	Within thy gentle bosom were enshrin`d.
	Thy heav`nly mind display`d, in early youth,
	The fairest blossom of celestial truth—
	How oft, sweet girl! thy soothing tears would flow,
	In sacred sympathy with others` woe!
	
	Yet Patience taught thee to sustain thy own,
	Suppress the sigh, and hush the rising moan;
	`Midst anguish, still to wear the placid mien,
	Mild Resignation`s smile and look serene!
	Ye who have watch`d beside the mournful bed,
	And rais`d, with anxious care, the languid head;
	Gaz`d on the pallid cheek, the faded eye,
	And heard the breathings of the parting sigh;
	Ye who have mourn`d a sister`s early doom,
	Or bent in sorrow o`er a daughter`s tomb;
	Oh! weep for those, who sadly now deplore,
	The fate, the virtues, of the maid no more.
	What pow`r can sooth a tender parent`s grief,
	Or bring the friend`s, the sister`s woes relief?
	Religion pure, ineffably divine,
	Angel of peace, that heav`nly pow`r is thine,
	Though spreading glooms the beam of joy may shroud,
	Still, still thy rainbow brightens in the cloud;
	Dispels the mist of error and of night,
	Till fairer prospects open on the sight;
	
	The blissful regions of eternal rest,
	The calm, Elysian mansions of the blest.
	—There too, each pang, each earthly suff`ring o`er,
	Her gentle spirit soars, to weep no more!
	"Mourn not for me," the happy seraph cries,
	"Exulting, lo! I gain my native skies!
	A golden harp enraptur`d now I bear,
	A wreath of bright, unfading palms I wear!
	Mourn not for me, escap`d from ev`ry woe!
	I gaze with pity, on the scenes below!
	And bless the hour, when, freed from mortal clay,
	My spirit mounted to the realms of day!
	Oh! think, when past, a few eventful years,
	Of toil and sorrow in the vale of tears;
	Then shall we meet, releas`d from ev`ry pain,
	Then shall we meet—nor ever part again!"
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