Attend, ye thoughtless!--Hear, ye young and gay!
Who chearly pass the buxom hours away;
And let reflection for a while prevail,
While the sad Muse unfolds her mournful tale:
In pensive strains her solemn numbers flow,
And shew the vanity of all below.
The day that mark’d, in majesty sublime.
The greatest epoch in the rounds of time,
Since hymning angels, in exalted lays,
Proclaim’d _salvation_ to our ruin’d race,
Began the east with radiance to adorn,
And joy and gladness usher’d in the morn;
Each heart exulted, every bosom glow’d;
Great _Liberty_ inspir’d the son’rous ode;
And while the flame through every patriot burn’d,
Responsive echo _Liberty_ return’d.
Now sportive youths in jovial bands combin’d,
Tn social converse to unbend the mind;
While ruddy nymphs, flush’d with unusual charms,
That rouz’d the kindling breast with sweet alarms,
To tuneful airs sung the harmonious lay,
And swell’d the acclamations of the day.
Among the rest, with inoffensive glee,
MARIA joy’d th’ auspicious morn to see:
A lovely virgin, a young charming maid,
In youthful bloom and modesty array’d;
Whose gentle soul ne’er knew the dangerous ways;
Where innocence in paths of error drays:
But in the spotless school of virtue taught,
No other pattern for her conduct sought.
Thus undefil’d the graceful fair one grew,
“Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew.”
But lo! while she no fell disaster fear’d,
And to receive her welcome guests prepar’d;
When each warm transport in her breast reviv’d,
The grisly messenger of _death_ arriv’d:
In his cold arms embrac’d the helpless maid,
And number’d her for ever with the dead.
Oh! matchless _cruelty!_ Thou haggard foe!
Grim king of terrors! Ghastly prince of woe!
Virtue immaculate thus to requite!
And on the innocent to wreak thy spite!
To blast the rose just op’ning into bloom,
And hide its faded glories in the tomb!
O! could I touch, with sympathetic smart,
The tender feelings of the melting heart;
Then would I long on the dire subject dwell,
And the sad verse with gloomy numbers swell:
But ’tis not mine,--I must the task forego,
And let the gushing tear in silence flow.
Rest then, thou gentle spirit, rest in peace;
All jarring _passions_ now for ever cease;
No more shall _sickness_ thy soft frame invade;
And _grief_ and _pain_ eternally are fled,
Ere long thy friends, who now thy fate deplore,
Will follow thee and be beheld no more;
And the young hand that pays this tribute, must
Lie down in death, and mingle with the dust.