Epitaph on an Unfortunate Lady

MORTAL, whene'er by Contemplation led,
Thou seek'st these aweful mansions of the dead;
Here pause awhile, and view this humble grave,
Where no pale statues weep, no banners wave;
Here rests, secure from ev'ry human woe,
One whose sad fate commands the tear to flow;
Who, in the dawn of life, when all was gay,
Attentive heard seducing Pleasure's lay;
By the false Syren lur'd, she plow'd the wave,
Where ruthless rocks afford a certain grave;
By the rude storm despoil'd of peace and fame,
Your pity now is all she means to claim;
But, whilst celestial Pity, pausing here,
Shall kindly shed one tributary tear;
Let none, who virtue more than mercy prize,
Disturb the dust that near this willow lies:
For, though beneath this humble, harmless stone,
Sleeps one to human frailty often prone,
Yet Pity's self shall draw a friendly veil
O'er all the guilt that clouds her hapless tale.
As vernal air then breathing pure and sweet,
One anxious pray'r to Heav'n's high Mercy-seat,
Thither shall cherub'd Peace the record bear,
Whilst radiant Hope shall fix her anchor there.