Near where yon streamlet slowly finds With pebbly noise its silver way, And where his horn the beetle winds To swell the dirge of closing day;
While many a flower of earliest spring, Round the light greensward bending creeps, And many an insect's glossy wing Slow circles o'er the humming steeps:
There rests the hamlet's native pride, The fairest maid, that decked its green; In soul to heaven alone allied, In form a grace, a love in mein.
Oh! she was gentle, as the air, Which plays on summer's tranquil breast; A heart so kind to every care, Warms but the tenderturtle's nest.
Her voice was softer, than the lyre, That steals each echo from the breeze; Her eye the blue with chastened fire, That wins us, ere it seems to please.
Oft, when the wild gust shook the leaf, Her pipe in mellow tones would pour, So soft, so sad, its touching grief: So soft, so sad, it swells no more!
Nor more, as wont, at vernal wake With merry steps they dance the hays, But sighs from every bosom break For her, who blest their youthful days.
So, while at eve the hoary swain Recounts the tale to infant ears, They seek the grave of lovely Jane, And turn their ready sports to tears.
Oft too the village nymphs repair In dumb distress to kneel and weep, To strew the rue and primrose there, Or hymn her gentle sprite to sleep.
Pause then, on yonder hallowed spot, And give her worth a parting sigh; So may thy grave ne'er be forgot, When the lorn pilgrim passes by.
