Classic Poem

TO THE MEMORY OF MISS MARY PENROSE ,

Heard ye the bell from yonder dusky tow'r?
Deep, deep it tolls the summons of the dead;
And marks with sullen note the solemn hour,
That calls Maria to her earthy bed.

O! come, ye mournful virgin train, attend;
With musing step, the hallow'd place draw near;
View there your once-lov'd, happy, blooming friend,
Now silent, slumbering on the sable bier.

Come ye, who join'd in friendship's sacred tie,
With her engag'd in pleasure's guiltless scene;
Who shar'd with her the tender, social joy,
Wove the gay dance; or trod the flowery green;

Mark here, O! mark, how chang'd, how alter'd lies
The breast that once with youth's warm tide beat high;
Read your own fate in her's; — in time be wise,
And from her bright example learn to die!

Like drooping lilies cropt by wintry wind,
For fate has doom'd the hour when die you must,
Must leave the world's fantastic dreams behind,
And sleep, and mingle, with your parent dust.

Say, are your forms with youth's soft graces dress'd?
Say, are they ting'd with beauty's brightest bloom?
So once was her's — by you — by all confess'd,
Till death untimely swept her to the tomb.

Her eyes beam'd out, how innocent, how meek!
At whose rebuke vice shrunk abash'd and pale;
Like vernal roses blush'd her modest cheek,
Like them as lovely, and like them as frail.

How was she skill'd the softest breasts to move!
Of hardest hearts the passions rough to bend;
How was she skill'd to win the general love!
How form'd to bless the husband or the friend!

With meek-soul'd charity, with pitying hands,
To misery oft her little store she gave;
Now she herself our flowing tears demands,
And bids our pious drops bedew her grave.

There on her dusty couch in firm repose,
Deaf to our call, the clay-cold slumberer lies;
Her beauty faded like the blasted rose,
Mute her sweet tongue, and clos'd her radiant eyes.

Full many an hour of agonizing pain
She, patient sufferer, bore her lot severe;
Well did the anguish of her soul restrain,
Nor dropt one female, one repining tear.

Midst life's last pangs Religion lent her aid,
And wip'd with lenient hand her misty eyes;
With bless'd assurance cheer'd the pain-worn maid,
And bade her hopes, high-soaring, reach the skies.

There now, enroll'd with heavenly angels bright,
Whose hallow'd hymns their Maker's glories raise,
She shines, refulgent in the blaze of light,
And swells with raptur'd voice the note of praise.

Look down, bless'd saint, O! turn a pitying eye!
If yet in Heaven a brother's name be dear:
In the dread hour of danger be thou nigh,
And lead me far from vice's baneful snare.

Teach me, whate'er my future lot shall be,
To G OD'S just Will my being to resign:
Teach me to sail through life's tempestuous sea:
And like thy latest parting hour be mine!