Classic Poem

Ah come ye gay nymphs of the plain,
Who trip it so light o'er the green,
Come hither and visit this fane;
And look thro this truth telling screen
And here view how fleeting lifes joys
That promise a harvest most fair
But death the grim tyrant destroys
The fabrick so fondly we rear
See here is a new open'd grave
For Myra the gentle and young
Nor wisdom nor duty could save
Nor sweetness her life could prolong.
Her mind was of mildness the seat,
So soft and expressive her eye,
Her heart was with goodness replete,
And her smile was the earnest of joy.
Ah see the procession so slow,
How pensive the sweet virgin train,
In silence they mourn as they go,
And scarcely their grief can contain.
May pity pour balm in the mind,
Of those she so justly held dear,
Support them ye gaurdians so kind,
Who make the afflicted your care.
Alas tis my fortune to weep,
To mourn o'er the dust that I love,
Thus wakeful sad vigils to keep;
And sorrows keen anguish to prove.
Come virtue and friendship prepare
To sing the soft dirge at her tomb,
The graces shall there drop a tear,
And roses unplanted shall bloom.