Classic Poem

Who died Jan. 10, 1778. Aged Twelve Years

Ah! why this sorrow, why this pensive gloom,
That sweet Eliza rests within the tomb?
Her gentle Spirit is supremely blest;
No anxious cares can agitate her breast.
Short was her passage thro' this vale of tears,
Unstain'd by guilt, or its attendant fears:
Her soul aspiring to the realms of light,
Secur'd its happiness by rapid flight.
Shall elegiac verse in mournful lay,
Or silent eloquence her worth display?
In her was sound whate'er could love engage,
Simplicity of Youth, and sense of Age;
Manners refin'd; a kind and faithful heart;
And all the gifts which Virtue could impart.
Oh Death! thou cruel and relentless pow'r!
Why didst thou seize this fair expanding flow'r?
Her op'ning beauties scarce had felt the sun;
Too soon, alas! th'appointed course she run.
Yet, what avails our grief? we weep in vain;
Great is her profit, since, " to Die is Gain. "