Tell my STREPHON that I die

Tell my STREPHON that I die; Let echoes to each other tell, Till the mournful accents fly To STREPHON's ear, and all is well.

But gently breathe the fatal truth, And soften every harsher sound, For STREPHON's such a tender youth, The softest words too deep will wound.

Now fountains, echoes, all be dumb; For should I cost my swain a tear, I should repent it in my tomb, And grieve I bought my rest so dear.