Funerary Epigram

Stranger, here lies the blithesome grasshopper
Young Helle guarded long from direful fate,
And whose wing, vibrant under foot serrate,
In bilberry, pine and cytisus did whir.

Alas! she's dead—the natural dulcimer,
Of furrow, field and corn the muse elate;
Lest thou disturb her slumber's peaceful state,
Pass quickly by nor heavily press on her.

'Tis yonder. Mid a tuft of thyme we see
Her grave's white stone with beauty freshly fair;—
How few the men who win such destiny!

Her tomb oft feels a child's fond, tearful care,
And every morn Aurora piously
With copious dewdrops makes libation there.