Classic Poem

If e'er thy bosom swell'd with grief sincere,
View this sad shrine, and pour the pitying tear:
Here Fountayne lies, in whom all charms combin'd,
All that e'er grac'd, or dignified her kind.
Farewel bright pattern of unblemish'd youth,
Of mildest merit, modesty, and truth!
Death snatch'd thy sweetness in the genial hour,
Just when thy stem put forth its infant flower:
Still blooms the tender flower; as oft we see
Fair branches budding from the lifeless tree.