Letitia Elizabeth Landon

Dirge

Oh, calm be thy slumbers!
The cypress shall wave,
The harp pour its numbers
Of grief o'er thy grave.
I'll scatter each blossom
Upon thy cold stone:
The rose's white bosom,
Pure, fair, as thine own;
The violet glowing,
Blue, like to thine eyes;
The jessamine, throwing
Its sweets, like thy sighs.

Like thee, they'll be gather'd
All fresh in their prime;
Like thee, they'll be wither'd
Before it is time:
The flowers we strew o'er thee,
Will fade like thy bloom;
Like the hearts that adore thee,
They'll die on thy tomb!