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Poem by Robert Burns


Monody on a Lady Famed for her Caprice


How cold is that bosom which folly once fired,
  How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glistend!
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tird,
  How dull is that ear which to flattery so listend!

If sorrow and anguish their exit await,
  From friendship and dearest affection removd;
How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,
  Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlovd.

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;
  So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear:
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,
  And flowers let us cull for Marias cold bier.

Well search thro the garden for each silly flower,
  Well roam through the forest for each idle weed;
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,
  For none eer approachd her but rued the rash deed.

Well sculpture the marble, well measure the lay;
  Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre;
There keen Indignation shall dart on his prey,
  Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.

        THE EPITAPH

HERE lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,
  What once was a butterfly, gay in lifes beam:
Want only of wisdom denied her respect,
  Want only of goodness denied her esteem.



                      Robert Burns


Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Mark Yonder Pomp
  2. By Allan Stream
  3. Theres News, Lasses
  4. Scroggam
  5. The First Psalm


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