Classic Poem

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired,
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glistened;
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired,
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened. —

If sorrow and anguish their exit await,
From friendship and dearest affection removed;
How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,
Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unloved. —

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;
So shy, grave and distant, ye shed not a tear:
But come, all ye offspring of folly so true,
And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier. —

We'll search through the garden for each silly flower,
We'll range through the forest for each idle weed;
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,
For none e'er approached her but rued the rash deed. —

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay;
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre;
Here keen Indignation shall dart on his prey,
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. —

The epitaph —

Here lies, now a prey to insulting Neglect,
What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam:
Want only of wisdom denied her respect,
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. —