Inscription for an Urn in a Gentleman’s Garden

Blow, Winter-wind, these desert rocks around,
No blight from thee my cypress garland fears!
Away ye months, with light and roses crown’d!
But, melting April, steep it in thy tears!
Here the fond lover to his fair one told
The tale of tenderness and gay delight,
When, from its base, th’ incumbent mountain roll’d,
And Beauty, Youth, and Love, were whelm’d in night.
Ah! gentle stranger, pensive o’er me bend,
Who, in these deathful scenes, am doom’d to prove,
A sad memorial of the timeless end,
And living grave, of Beauty, Youth, and Love!