Permit me, Sir, with humble verse
To pay my tribute to the hearse
Which to death's silent gloomy cell,
Where ev'ry mortal soon must dwell,
With solemn pomp of woe conveys
A subject of the justest praise .
But tho' in ghastly death's disguise,
In dust her mould'ring body lies,
The soul , her better nobler part,
Enjoys the wishes of her heart;
From ev'ry grief a kind release ,
From ev'ry shock a heav'nly peace .
No sick'ning pain, nor ill she knows,
Nor fears the undistinguish'd blows ,
The storms of this uncertain state,
Which on the good and wicked wait.
Too soon for you indeed she fell,
Too soon she dy'd who liv'd so well;
But God is just in his decrees,
Nor must we harbour thoughts like these.
When his appointed hour is come,
We calmly then shou'd meet our doom:
And, or in youth , or aged state ,
Nor call it soon , nor think it late ;
Though lost to you what joys above
Attend this object of your love,
This constant partner of your bed,
From virtue's path who never stray'd,
The chastest maid , the tend'rest wife ,
The pattern of exactest life.

Whilst then unwillingly you stand
Absolv'd from H YMEN'S sacred band ,
What's left? but prudently to mourn
That which can never here return.

The streaming eye, the falling tear,
Fond nature has allow'd us here,
To shew the sorrow of the heart
When dearest friends for ever part;

For ever , did I, thoughtless , say!
O no , there'll be a joyful day,
Unmix'd with clouds, serenely bright,
Nor clos'd with death's tempest'ous night,
Unparted then you'll ever live,
In joyous consort ever give.
To God your just , your grateful praise ,
That blest so long your earthly days,
And when he did that gift resume,
Gave endless comforts in its room.