To the Memory of Mrs. Mary M'kean

To yonder new made grave I'll go, And there indulge my swelling grief: There shall the tears of friendship flow, And give my wounded heart relief.

To yonder grave, oh! muse, repair, And whilst I breathe my tender sighs, Attune thy plaintive lyre, for there The lov'd, the lost Maria lies.

Blest be the ground where thou art laid; Let no unhallow'd foot presume Upon thy tufted grave to tread; No hostile hand profane thy tomb.

Angelic hosts assembled here, Shall guard the consecrated ground; In robes of radiant light appear, And spread seraphic music round.

The winds that thro' the midnight gloom, Wild howling o'er the mountains fly; Shall cease their rage, when near thy tomb, And pass in plaintive murmurs by.

When at the board with festive glee, Gay pleasures social bosoms chear; E'en mirth shall pause to think on thee, And, thinking, drop a silent tear.

With grateful hearts the poor distrest, Shall to thy grave lamenting go; Then shall thy hand be duly blest, That hand which lov'd to soften woe.

Oft when the moon with placid ray Gleams o'er the dew-bespangled green, Here shall my silent footsteps stray, Here shall my pensive form be seen.

Thy worth, dear saint, shall then arise All bright to contemplation's view: Review thy life with weeping eyes, And weeping strive to copy you.

Remembrance long shall hold thee fast; Thy form, thy virtues ne'er shall die: I'll love thee thus whilst life shall last, And bless thee with my latest sigh.