Epitaph On An Unfortunate Lady. To The Rev. George Gleig, A.M.

EPITAPH ON AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.

TO THE REV. GEORGE GLEIG, A.M.

MORTAL, whene'er by Contemplation led, Thou seek'st these aweful mansions of the dead; Here pause awhile, and view this humble grave, Where no pale statues weep, no banners wave; Here rests, secure from ev'ry human woe, One whose sad fate commands the tear to flow; Who, in the dawn of life, when all was gay, Attentive heard seducing Pleasure's lay; By the false Syren lur'd, she plow'd the wave, Where ruthless rocks afford a certain grave; By the rude storm despoil'd of peace and fame, Your pity now is all she means to claim; But, whilst celestial Pity, pausing here, Shall kindly shed one tributary tear; Let none, who virtue more than mercy prize, Disturb the dust that near this willow lies: For, though beneath this humble, harmless stone, Sleeps one to human frailty often prone, Yet Pity's self shall draw a friendly veil O'er all the guilt that clouds her hapless tale. As vernal air then breathing pure and sweet, One anxious pray'r to Heav'n's high Mercy-seat, Thither shall cherub'd Peace the record bear, Whilst radiant Hope shall fix her anchor there.