On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to the Author, and Very Dear to Him

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb, And scatter flowers on the dust I love. Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay, where once such animation beam'd; The King of Terrors seiz'd her as his prey; Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.…