ANNA'S URN.
ENCOMPASS'D in an angel's frame,
An angel's virtues lay:
Too soon did heav'n assert its claim,
And call'd its own away.
My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms,
Can never more return!
What then shall fill these widow'd arms?
Ah me! my Anna's urn.
Can I forget that bliss refin’d,
Which, bless‘d with her, I knew?
Our hearts in sacred bonds entwin‘d,
Were bound by love too true.
That rural train, which once were us‘d,
In festive dance to turn,
So pleas‘d, when Anna they amus‘d,
Now weeping deck her urn.
The soul escaping from its chain,
She clasp‘d me to her breast,
“To part with thee is all my pain!
She cried, then sunk to rest!
While mem‘ry shall her seat retain,
From beateous Anna torn,
My heart shall breathe its ceaseless strain,
Of sorrow o‘er her urn.
There, with the earliest dawn, a dove,
Laments her murder‘d mate:
