Classic Poem

Ere that coffin goes down, let it bear on its lid
The garland of roses
Which the hand of a father, her mourners amid,
In silence deposes —
'Tis the young maiden's funeral hour!
From thy bosom, O earth! sprung that young budding rose
And 'tis meet that together thy lap should enclose
The young maid and the flower!

Never, never give back the two symbols so pure
Which to thee we confide;
From the breath of this world and its plague-spot secure,
Let them sleep side by side —
They shall know not its pestilent power!
Soon the breath of contagion, the deadly mildew,
Or the fierce scorching sun, might parch up as they grew
The young maid and the flower!

Poor Eliza! for thee life's enjoyments have fled,
But its pangs too are flown!
Then go sleep in the grave! in that cold bridal bed
Death may call thee his own —
Take this handful of clay for thy dower!
Of a texture wert thou far too gentle to last;
'Twas a morning thy life! now the matins are past
For the maid and the flower!