Sonnet---------By Lord Byron.

Oh!  snatch'd 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.

And oft by yon blue gushing stream,

            Shall sorrow lean her dropping head,

And feed deep thought with many a dream;

            And lingering pause and lightly tread,

Fond wretch!  as if her steps disturbed the dead.

Away!- we know that tears are vain,

            That death nor heeds nor hears distress-

Will this unteach us to complain?

            Or make one mourner weep the less?

And thou- who tell'st me to forget,

Thy locks are wan- thy eyes are wet!