Classic Poem

And is she gone, the once so lovely maid,
Gone hence, and now a dear departed shade!
Snatch'd from this world in early dawn of life,
When but beginning to be call'd a wife?

Ye virgin tribe, whom chance may lead this way,
Where brightest beauty moulders into clay,
Behold this stone, nor be asham'd to mourn,
A while o'er M ARY A LEXANDER'S urn—
Then pause a little, while these lines you read,
And learn to draw instruction from the dead—
She, who lies here, was once like one of you,
Youthful and blyth, and fair, as you are now:
One week beheld her a bright blooming bride,
In marriage pomp laid by her lover's side;
The next we saw her in death's livery drest,
And brought her breathless body here to rest.
Not all this world's gay hopes, nor present charms,
Nor parents tears, nor a fond husband's arms,
Could stamp the least impression on her mind,
Or fix to earth a soul for heav'n design'd;
Calmly she left a scene so lately try'd,
Heav'n call'd her hence, with pleasure she complied,
Embrac'd her sorrowing friends, then smil'd—and dy'd.