Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes,      The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn,      The dark robe floating, the dejection worn      On the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes; Not all this pomp of sorrow, that presumes      It pays Affection's debt, is due concern      To the FOR EVER ABSENT, tho' it mourn Fashion's allotted time. If Time consumes, While Life is ours, the precious vestal-flame      Memory shou'd hourly feed;—if, thro' each day,      She with whate'er we see, hear, think, or say, Blend not the image of the vanish'd Frame,      O! can the alien Heart expect to prove, In worlds of light and life, a reunited love!