Mary Wortley Montagu (Мэри Уортли Монтегю)

On the Death of Mrs. Bowes

Written extempore on a card, in a large company, 
December 14, 1724.

Hail, happy bride, for thou art truly blest!
Three months of rapture, crown'd with endless rest.
Merit like yours was Heav'n's peculiar care,
You lov'd -- yet tasted happiness sincere.
To you the sweets of love were only shown,
The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown;
You had not yet the fatal charge deplor'd,
The tender lover for th'imperious lord:
Nor felt the pain that jealous fondness brings:
Nor felt, that coldness from possession springs.
Above your sex, distinguish'd in your fate,
You trusted -- yet experienc'd no deceit;
Soft were your hours, and wing'd with pleasure flew;
No vain repentance gave a sigh to you:
And if superior bliss Heaven can bestow,
With fellow-angels you enjoy it now. 

1. Impromptu, to a Young Lady Singing
2. Town Eclogues: Saturday; the Small-Pox
3. On Seeing a Portrait of Sir Robert Walpole
4. The Bride in the Country
5. A Summary of Lord Lyttleton's Advice to a Lady

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1942

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