In a Churchyard

O thou, who sleep'st where hazel bands entwine The vernal grass, with paler violets drest! I would, sweet maid, thy humble bed were mine, And mine thy calm and enviable rest. For never more, by human ills opprest, Shall thy soft spirit fruitlessly repine: Thou canst not now thy fondest hopes resign Even in the hour that should have made thee blest. Light lies the turf upon thy virgin breast; And lingering here, to love and sorrow true, The youth who once thy simple heart possest Shall mingle tears with April's early dew; While still for him shall faithful memory save Thy form and virtues from the silent grave.