Classic Poem

One of the Best of Women

Ye reverend Manes of the ancient dead,
Whose pious urns have unmolested lain
A long eternity of buried years,
Num'rous as are the tributary tears
Which grace your memories; arise and stand
In sacred column on the heavenly strand,
To welcome to your realms of endless rest
As bright a soul as e'er was render'd blest.

For surely such is she who now is gone
To reap the blessings of the heavenly throne.
She was...but Ah! Alas! she is no more...
That virtue's self which we should all adore.

A tender parent and a faithful wife
In ev'ry action of her pious life;
A worthy mistress and a real friend;
But...what we never can enough commend...
Is that this most divine, this matchless She
Was ev'n the very soul of charity;
To all good works most zealously sincere,
To all ill thoughts and actions so severe;
In short, she was most justly these, and all
We may consummately religious call.

But Ah! her virtues will adorn her hearse
More than the vain efforts of feeble verse,
Which but augments the grief of each sad mind
That she has left to mourn her here behind.
Cease, then, impatient muse, and leave the rest
To be in silence and in tears express'd.