Charlotte Smith (1749–1806)

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.