Classic Poem

TO THE MEMORY OF LADY MARGARET ANSTRUTHER.

A LL in her bloom the graceful fair,
Lucinda, leaves this mortal round:
Her loss a thousand mourners share,
And beauty feels the cruel wound.
Now grief and tears o'er all our joys prevail,
Viewing her rosy cheeks all cold and pale.

Thus some fair star distinguish'd bright,
Which decks the heavens, and guides the main;
When clouds obscure its glorious light,
It leaves the gloomy world in pain:
So sudden death has veil'd Lucinda's eyes,
And left us lost in darkness and suprize.

Nor sweetness, beauty, youth, nor wealth,
Nor blood, tho' nobly high it springs;
Nor virtue's self can purchase health,
When death severe his summons brings;
Else might the fair Lucinda, young and gay,
Have blest the world with a much longer stay.

But say, sweet shade, was it thy choice
To leave this low inconstant globe;
Tir'd with its vain, its jangling noise,
Thou wisely dropt thy human robe?
Or tell us, guardian angels, tell us true,
Did ye not claim her hence as one of you?

Yes, well we know it is your way,
When here below such beings shine,
To grudge us e'en our earthly clay,
Which, form'd like her, becomes divine:
Such you demand and free from cares and fears,
Unmindful of our fruitless sighs and tears.

Yet deign, ye friends to human kind,
The lonely consort to attend;
O sooth the anguish of his mind,
And let his killing sorrows end:
Tell him, his sighs and mourning to asswage,
Each day she dwelt with him was worth an age.

Ye lovely virgins who excel,
Ye fair to whom such strains belong,
In melting notes her beauties tell,
And weep her virtues in a song:
See that ye place her merit in true light,
For singing her's your own will shine more bright.

Let east, and west, and south, and north,
Aloud the mournful music hear,
How beauty 's fallen beyond the Forth;
Let Britain's genius cypress wear.
Yet Britain's happy, who such beauty yields,
As forc'd from her's, will grace Elysium's fields.