Poem by Ann Plato

Reflections, Written on Visiting the Grave of a Venerated Friend

Deep in this grave her bones remain,
She's sleeping on, bereft of pain,
Her tongue in silence now does sleep,
And she no more time's call can greet.

She liv'd as all God's saints should do,
Resign'd to death and suffering too;
She feels not pain or sin oppress,
Nor does of worldly cares possess.

White were the locks that thinly shed
Their snows around her honor'd head,
And furrows not to be effac'd
Had age amid her features trac'd.

I said, my sister, DO tread light,
Faint as the stars that gleam at night,
Nor pluck the tender leaves that wave
In sweetness over this sainted grave.

The rose I've planted by her side,
It tells me of that fate decri'd;
And bids us all prepare to die,
For that our doom is hast'ning nigh.

Oh! that the gale that sweeps the heath,
Too roughly o'er your leaves should breathe,
Then sigh for her--and when you bloom
Scatter your fragrance o'er her tomb.

Alone I've wander'd through the gloom,
To pour my lays upon her tomb;
And I have mourn'd to see her bed
With brambles and with thorns o'erspread.

O, surely, round her place of rest
I will not let the weed be blest,
It is not meet that she should be
Forgotten or unblest by me.

My sister said, "tell of this grave!"
Go ask, said I, the thoughtless wave;
And spend one hour in anxious care--
In duty, penitence, and prayer.

Farewell! let memory bestow,
That all may soon be laid as low,
For out of dust, God did compose,
We turn to dust, to sleep, repose.

1. On the Dismission of a School Term
2. Lines, Written upon Being Examined in School Studies for the Preparation of a Teacher
3. The Residence of My Father
4. Memory of Mary
5. Advice to Young Ladies

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