Epitaph : From “The Fading Rose”

Here—for they could not help but die—

The daughters of the Rose-Bush lie:

Here rest, interred without a stone,

What dear Lucinda gave to none,—

What forward beau, or curious belle,

Could hardly touch, and rarely smell.

Dear Rose! of all the blooming kind

You had a happier place assigned,

And nearer grew to all that ’s fair,

And more engaged Lucinda’s care,

Than ever courting, coaxing swain,

Or ever all who love, shall gain.