Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, br On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; br But on thy turf shall roses rear br Their leaves, the earliest of the year; br And the wild cypress wave in tender br gloom: br br And oft by yon blue gushing stream br Shall sorrow lean her drooping head, br And feed deep thought with many a dream, br And lingering pause and lightly tread; br Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the br dead! br br Away! we know that tears are vain, br That death nor heeds nor hears distress: br Will this unteach us to complain? br Or make one mourner weep the less? br And thou - who tell'st me to forget, br Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.