The Young That Died in Beauty
If souls should only sheen so bright
In heaven as in e’thly light,
An’ nothen better wer the ceaese,
How comely still, in sheaepe an’ feaece,
Would many reach thik happy pleaece,—
The hopeful souls that in their prime
Ha’ seem’d a-took avore their time—
The young that died in beauty.
But when woone’s lim’s ha’ lost their strangth
A-tweilen drough a lifetime’s langth,
An’ over cheaeks a-growen wold
The slowly-weaesten years ha’ rolled,
The deep’nen wrinkle’s hollow vwold;
When life is ripe, then death do call
Vor less ov thought, than when do vall
On young vo’ks in their beauty.
But pinen souls, wi’ heads a-hung
In heavy sorrow vor the young,
The sister ov the brother dead,
The father wi’ a child a-vled,
The husband when his bride ha’ laid
Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,
Have all a-vound the time to murn
Vor youth that died in beauty.
An’ yeet the church, where prayer do rise
Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi’ downcast eyes.
An’ village greens, a-beaet half beaere
By dancers that do meet, an’ weaer
Such merry looks at feaest an’ feaeir,
Do gather under leatest skies,
Their bloomen cheaeks an’ sparklen eyes,
Though young ha’ died in beauty.
But still the dead shall mwore than keep
The beauty ov their eaerly sleep;
Where comely looks shall never weaer
Uncomely, under tweil an’ ceaere.
The feaeir at death be always feaeir,
Still feaeir to livers’ thought an’ love,
An’ feaeirer still to God above,
Than when they died in beauty.
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