PATHETIC EPITAPH.
(To the Editor.)
Among the many monumental inscriptions and epitaphs which have fallen under my notice (and I have been a "Gatherer" ever since the days of my childhood) I have seldom met with one more calculated to start the tender tear than the following, which I copied from an old and long since defunct periodical, which describes it as "placed by a Mr. Thickness on the grave of his daughter, who lies buried in his garden, at St. Catherine's Hermitage, near Bath."
At the Lady's Head is a beautiful Monument, with the following Inscription:
What tho' no sacred earth afford thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb,
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast.
Here shall the morn her earliest tears bestow—
Here the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground now sacred by thy reliques made.
At her Feet:
Reader, if YOUTH should sparkle in thine eye—
If on thy cheek the flow'r of beauty blows,
Here shed a tear, and heave the pensive sigh
Where BEAUTY, YOUTH, and INNOCENCE repose.
Doth wit adorn thy mind?—doth science pour
It's ripen'd bounties on thy vernal year?
Behold! where Death has cropp'd the plenteous store—
And heave the sigh, and shed the pensive tear.
Does Music's dulcet notes dwell on thy tongue?
And do thy fingers sweep the sounding lyre?
Behold! where low she lies, who sweetly sung
The melting strains a cherub might inspire.
Of YOUTH, of BEAUTY, then be vain no more—
Of music's pow'r—of WIT and LEARNING'S prize;
For while you read, those charms may all be o'er,
And ask to share the grave where ANNA lies.