Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him <br /> <br />Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, <br />Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, <br />Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, <br />And scatter flowers on the dust I love. <br /> <br />Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, <br />That clay, where once such animation beam'd; <br />The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, <br />Not worth nor beauty have her life redeem'd. <br /> <br />Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel, <br />Or heaven reverse the dread decree of fate, <br />Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, <br />Not here the muse her virtues would relate. <br /> <br />But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars <br />Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; <br />And weeping angels lead her to those bowers <br />Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay. <br /> <br /> <br />And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign, <br />And, madly, godlike Providence accuse? <br />Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;-- <br />I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. <br /> <br /> <br />Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, <br />Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; <br />Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, <br />Still in my heart retain their wonted place.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-a-young-lady/
