EPITAPH.
Stop, stranger stop, let one sad tear bedew
That sorrowing face, while this cold stone you view:
Here death in icy arms confines that fair,
Who once was lovely as the angels are;
But think not strange————ever to behold
Transcendent worth on sculptur’d marble told;
Ah no!—suffice it, if one mournful tear
Shall mix with mine in tender sorrow here.