FORBEAR, bold Passenger, forbear The verge of this sad Sepulchre: Put off thy shoes, nor dare to tread The hallowed earth where she lies dead: For in this vault the magazine Of female virtue's stor'd, and in This marble casket is confin'd The jewel of all Woman-kind. For here she lies, whose Spring was crown'd With every grace in Beauty found; Whose Summer to that Spring did suit, Whose Autumn cracked with happy fruit. Whose Fall was like her Life, so spent, Exemplary, and excellent. For here the fairest, chastest Maid, That this Age ever knew, is laid: The best of Kindred, best of Friends, Of most faith, and of fewest ends; Whose fame the tracks of Time survives; The best of Mothers, best of Wives. Lastly, which the whole sum of praise implies, Here she, who was the best of Women, lies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EGERTON MANUSCRIPT: 102 by THOMAS WYATT THE PHILOSOPHER by EMILY JANE BRONTE SECRET LOVE; SONG by JOHN CLARE WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME by PATRICK SARSFIELD GILMORE THE COMING OF GOOD LUCK by ROBERT HERRICK THE PILLAR OF FAME by ROBERT HERRICK AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM by ALEXANDER POPE |