Poem by George Gordon Byron

On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to the Author, and Very Dear to Him

1.

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
⁠   Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb,
⁠   And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

2.

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
⁠   That clay, where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seiz'd her as his prey;
   ⁠Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.

3.

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
   ⁠Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
⁠   Not here the Muse her virtues would relate.

4.

But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
   ⁠Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers,
   ⁠Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.

5.

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign!
⁠   And, madly, Godlike Providence accuse!
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;—
⁠   I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.

6.

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
⁠   Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
⁠   Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

1. Epitaph
2. Churchill’s Grave
3. On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School
4. Lines Addressed to a Young Lady
5. To the Earl of Clare

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