Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize,
As Burnet lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious Death so triumph'd in a blow,
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.—

Thy form and mind, sweet Maid! can I forget,
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!
In thee, what Heaven above, was truest shown,
For by his noblest work the Godhead best is known.—

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm, Eliza is no more.—

Ye heathy wastes immix'd with reedy fens,
Ye mossy streams with sedge and rushes stor'd,
Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.—

Princes whose cumbrous pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail;
And thou, sweet Excellence! forsake our earth,
And not a Muse in honest grief bewail!

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride,
And virtue's light that beams beyond the spheres;
But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide,
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.—

The Parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk a prey to grief and care!
So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree;
So, rudely ravish'd, left it bleak and bare.—