Though F----s muse may grief assume,
And teach his plaintive soul to mourn;
No wreath I make for Anna’s tomb,
Nor weep upon her chilly urn.
’Tis not for me to mourn as dead,
The fair whom blooming I survey,
Nor with a turf to grace her head,
Nor change her limbs to mould’ring clay.
Let friendship’s artless voice inspire
My muse to sing in diff’rent strains:
While as a friend I here admire
Her more--than on the Etherial plains.
Far distant may the period be,
When Anna’s form shall lose its bloom;
And F----s frantic verse we see
Sadly inscribed upon her tomb.