AN ELEGY.
[by the same.]
Near yon lone pile, with ivy overspread,
Fast by the riv’let’s peace-persuading sound;
Where sleeps the moonlight on yon verdant bed,
O, humbly press that consecrated ground!
For there does Edmund rest—the learned swain!
And there his pale-ey’d phantom loves to rove:
Young Edmund, fam’d for each harmonious strain,
And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.
Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
And loads the zephyr with its soft perfume;
His manhood blossom’d ere the faithless pride
Of fair Lucinda sunk him to the tomb.
But soon did righteous Heav’n her crime pursue,
Where’er with wilder’d steps she wander’d pale;
Still Edmund’s image rose to blast her view---
Still Edmund’s voice accus’d her in each gale.
With keen remorse, and tortur’d guilt’s alarm,
Amid the pomp of affluence she pin’d;
Nor all that lur’d her faith from Edmund’s arms,
Could sooth the conscious horrors of her mind.
Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught,
Some lovely maid perchance, or blooming youth,
May hold it in remembrance and be taught,
That riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.