Strews all her flowers around thy hearse,
Let Pity quit thy grave, and go
A mourner to yon house of woe.
There from thy father’s bosom break
Sighs, which too eloquently speak:
Thy mother weeps, but weeps resign’d,
In all things noble, most in mind:
Pale griefs thy sisters’ cheeks invade;
And one, alas, too tender maid!
Holds a long melancholy strife