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Maidens, by a maiden's bier, Pause awhile, and kneeling shed Nature's tributary tear, For the sleeping early dead.

Now upon her snowy breast Sprigs of myrtle gently strew; Pale night flowers, to watch her rest, Place amid those strips of rue: Like a little fairy place, We will make her coffin-bed; All that's beautiful should grace Pillows of the early dead.

Scented rosemary hither bring, Pansies,* with their large bright leaves, O'er her winding-sheet we'll fling, For no care her bosom grieves. Of the sweet† white violet Form a chaplet for her head, Diamond tears therein we'll set, Which are for the early dead.

Now we leave the darken'd room Where the oaken coffin lay, Only it was wrapp'd in gloom, All around us now is day! Birds are singing from each tree, Light on ev'ry thing is shed; E'en the honey-laden bee Passes by the early dead.

What a contrast do we find 'Tween the pow'rs of God and man; One is boundless as the wind! And the other—but a span! Slowly to the old church-yard, Now the sable plumes have led, And we almost think it hard There to take the early dead.

Hush! the solemn passing bell Boometh from the sacred pile: Thoughts e'er echo to that knell, That must banish ev'ry smile! Now her resting-place we reach— What a sudden thrill of dread Doth the mourning visage bleach, When earth owns the early dead!