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Oh! hadst thou still on earth remained,
Vision of beauty! fair as brief,
How soon thy brightness had been stained
With passion or with grief;
Now, not a sullying breath can rise
To dim thy glory in the skies.
We rear no marble o'er thy tomb,
No sculptured image there shall mourn;
Ah! fitter, far, the vernal bloom
Such dwelling to adorn;
Fragrance and flowers, and dews, must be
The only emblem meet for thee.
Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorned with nature's brightest wreath;
Each glowing season shall combine
Its incense there to breathe;
And oft, upon the midnight air,
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.
And oh! sometimes, in visions blest,
Sweet spirit, visit our repose,
And bear, from thine own world of rest,
Some balm for human woes;
What form more lovely could be given,
Than thine, to messenger of heaven!
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