SONG 9. Anna's urn

Encompass'd in an angel's frame. An angel's virtue lay: Too soon did heav'n assert its claim, And call'd its own away. My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms, Can never more return; What then shall fill these widow'd arms? Ah me! my Anna's urn.

Can I forget that bliss refin'd, Which, blest with her, I knew? Our hearts in sacred bonds entwin'd, Were bound by love most true. That rural train which once were us'd In festive dance to turn, So pleas'd when Anna they amus'd, Now, weeping, deck her urn.

The soul escaping from its chain, She clasp'd me to her breast, To part with thee is all my pain, She cried, then sunk to rest. While mem'ry shall her seat retain, From beauteous Anna torn, My heart shall breathe its mournful strain, Of sorrow o'er her urn.

There with the earliest dawn, a dove Laments her murder'd mate; There Philomela, lost to love, Tells the pale moon her fate. With yew and ivy round me spread, My Anna there I'll mourn; For all my soul, now she is dead, Concenters in her urn.