To the Memory of Lady Caroline Pennant.

When on the tomb where glory lies,1
In monumental pomp array’d,2
The traveller casts his wondering eyes,3
And sees its trophied griefs display’d ;4
Without a tear, without a sigh,5
He reads the blazon’d scroll of fame,6
And owns the powerless vanity7
Of honours to an empty name.8
Yet, stranger, pause this marble near ;9
More hallow’d is the turf you tread,10
For youthful beauty slumbers here,11
And virtue graced the noble dead.12
Here, wither’d in her bridal hour,13
Torn from affection’s bleeding breast,14
Of Marlborough’s house the pride and flower,15
Shall, till the world’s conclusion, rest.16
High was her birth—her spirit sought17
A station more sublimely high ;18
And with the charms which fashion taught,19
Combined a saint’s morality.20
In all her words affection spoke,21
And grace upon her accents hung ;22
Whose wit, though brilliant, never broke23
The law of kindness on her tongue.”24
Ah !  let no tearless eye intrude,25
Nor reckless step profane the ground,26
Where, of the beauteous and the good,27
The silent dust alone is found !28
But if thine heart hath haply known29
An early cypress veil its shrine,30
Then, stranger, come, and o’er this stone31
Weep with the friends of Caroline.32