How bless'd is he whom Nature's gentle hand
Has snatch'd from human life and human woes,
Ev'n in his childish days, ere yet he knew
Or sin, or pain, or youthful passion's force!
In Earth's soft lap, beneath the flowery turf,
His peaceful ashes sleep; to Heaven ascends
The' unspotted soul, declar'd by voice divine
A guest well pleasing — Then no longer mourn,
Thou drooping parent, nor bewail him lost —
In life's first bloom, when infant reason dawn'd,
And the young mind, unfolding every power,
Gave promise fair of manhood, transport fill'd
The mother's bosom, pondering every word
And action there. She now lamenting loud
Deplores him, from her vain embraces torn
By unrelenting fate, and fierce disease;
Like eastern storms that blast the opening year.