Classic Poem

Who died in the 21st year of her age, when she had been only six weeks married.

Tell Angels, O! the mournful story tell —
Maria's sled, and bid the world farewel;
To death's cold mansion, and the shades below,
She's fled, and left our hearts o'erwhelm'd with woe;
Torn in an instant from her Thompson's side,
And laid a breathless corpse while yet a bride;
Snatch'd in the midst of youth and beauty's bloom
From all the joys of life, to fill a tomb.
With what character shall I stamp her life?
Accomplish'd virgin, or a tender wife?
Too soon, alas! the latter task was done,
Her cares were finish'd e'er they'd well begun.
Hymen had join'd her hand to him she lov'd,
And almost every obstacle remov'd,
When the grim tyrant shot his fatal dart,
And pierc'd with this sad scene each feeling heart.
See how resign'd, how calm, and how serene,
She smiles at fate, and meets the solemn scene!
" Weep not for me, " she cry'd, " my heart's at rest,
" What God decrees we ought to think the best,
" Above this lower world I soon shall soar,
" There thank his goodness, and his name adore;
" Thro' amaranthine bowers and groves I'll stray
" Unmeasurable tracts beyond the milky way,
" And dwell in raptures of eternal day. "
Yes, yes dear Saint! methinks with reason's eye,
I saw thee take thy flight thro' yonder sky,
Enthron'd in light by thy Redeemer's side,
And crown'd a saint, tho' now no more a bride.