Epitaph on Eliza Jones

O, pure of spirit! that hast soar’d away
To thy congenial realms of cloudless day,
ELIZA, Angel! wilt thou hover near,
And teach his soul thy wounding loss to bear,
Sorrowing who saw thy cypress garland wove,
Ere time had dimm’d one hue of life, or love?
Then o’er the darkness, gather’d round his head,
Thy guardian care the light of hope will shed,
Shewing the harbour bright, religion forms
For the heart wreck’d by grief’s o’er-whelming storms.
So shall that heart, from fruitless anguish free,
Teach thy lov’d children to resemble thee;
And when, in future years, they pious turn
The moistened eye of duty on this urn,
Here shall its consecrated tablet prove
Their Mother’s virtue, and their Father’s love.