e her--therefore weep!
_The Last Scene_. W. WINTER.

O, snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
_O, Snatched Away_! LORD BYRON.

Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dressed.
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast;
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow.
_Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady_. A. POPE.

And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.
_In Memoriam, XVIII_. A. TENNYSON.

Sweets to the sweet: farewell,
I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife:
I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid,
And not t' have strewed thy grave.
_Hamlet, Act v. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

How loved, how honored once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
'T is all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
_Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady_. A. POPE.

Lay her i' the earth;
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring!
_Hamlet, Act v. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

Brave Percy, fare thee well!
Ill-weaned ambition, how much art thou shrunk:
When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
But now, two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough.
_King Henry VI., Pt. I. Act v. Sc. 4_. SHAKESPEARE.

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls where speaking marbles show
What worthies form the hallowed mould below;
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held,
In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled;
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given;
And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven.
_On the Death of Mr. Addison_. T. TICKELL.

The solitary, silent, solemn scene,
Where Caesars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie,
Blended in dust together; where the slave
Rests from his labors; where th' insulting proud
Resigns his powers; the miser drops his hoard:
Where human folly sleeps.
_Ruins of Rome_. J. DYER.

Then to the grave I turned me to see what therein lay;
'T was the garment of the Christian, worn out a