Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          I SAW thy form in youthful prime,

                Nor thought that pale decay

          Would steal before the steps of Time,

                And waste its bloom away, Mary!

          Yet still thy features wore that light,

                Which fleets not with the breath;

          And life ne’er look’d more truly bright

                Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

          As streams that run o’er golden mines,

                Yet humbly, calmly glide,

          Nor seem to know the wealth that shines

                Within their gentle tide, Mary!

          So veil’d beneath the simplest guise,

                Thy radiant genius shone,

          And that which charm’d all other eyes

                Seem’d worthless in thy own, Mary!

          If souls could always dwell above,

                Thou ne’er hadst left that sphere;

          Or could we keep the souls we love,

                We ne’er had lost thee here, Mary!

          Though many a gifted mind we meet,

                Though fairest forms we see,

          To live with them is far less sweet

                Than to remember thee, Mary!