1   Oh! snatch’d away in beauty’s bloom,   On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;      But on thy turf shall roses rear      Their leaves, the earliest of the year;   And the wild cypress wave in tender         gloom: 2   And oft by yon blue gushing stream      Shall sorrow lean her drooping head,   And feed deep thought with many a dream,      And lingering pause and lightly tread;      Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the         dead! 3   Away! we know that tears are vain,      That death nor heeds nor hears distress:   Will this unteach us to complain?      Or make one mourner weep the less?   And thou—who tell’st me to forget,   Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.