Eliza Rose

Wind-gathered winter leaves hide the worn Inscription; the birth, the death the epitaph On show for all who take this path To know Sir John is buried here Beneath his coat of arms. This baronet, the eigth in line, Esteemed to serve his king or queen, A gentleman of East India's refined Who sojourned and often richly dined At home in Berkley Square Now companion to the chafer, the cadys, And the countless creeping crawling things, While passers by have come and gone Without admiring glances Since eighteen thirty one. To line the row beside sir John Writ great and good in Portland stone The largest slabs bear names long gone: A Thomas and a William, an Elizabeth And a James. The births, the deaths and all the Dear belovedness, now mossed And mildewed, chafed by morning frost, And slimed by creeping slugs across Each cold grave table top. But there by winter's Flowering Cherry Near Purple Hazel and Norway's Maple Beside the yew with scarlet berry, Stands a smaller upright stone, Beloved daughter to John and Mary. Eliza Rose, just fourteen years of age: 'Early bright and transient, Chaste as morning dew, she sparkled, Was exhal'd and went her way to heaven', To the saviour that she knew.