Epitaph on Miss Wingfield of Shrewsbury

O! perish’d flower!--O! early darken’d day!
Deplor’d eclipse of youth’s meridian ray!
MARIA, she who mourns thy wither’d bloom,
And weaves her cypress garland o’er thy tomb,
Well knew the worth this now cold form enshrin’d,
Pure in the last recesses of the mind;
Each shaded excellence, that shunn’d the crowd,
Devote to Friendship, Wisdom, and to GOD.

Spirit benign, implore, from Mercy’s Throne,
Meekness resign’d and holy as thine own,
To sooth their bosoms, whose parental woe
They, who have lost an Angel, only know,
And wake consoling thoughts of that blest clime,
Where smiles eternal shame the tears of time.