ELEGY,
WRITTEN TO DISSUADE A YOUNG LADY FROM FREQUENTING
THE TOMB OF HER DECEASED LOVER.
Now, thro’ the dusky air, on leaden wings,
Sails the sad night, in blackest clouds array’d;
Hark! in the breeze the gathering tempest sings;
How dear it murmurs in the rustling shade!
Loud, and more loud, is heard the bursting sound
Of thunder, and the peal of distant rain;
While lightnings, gliding o’er the wild profound,
Fire the broad bosom of the dashing main.
Now dies the voice of village mirth; no more
Is seen the friendly lantern’s glimmering light;
Safe in his cot, the shepherd bars his door
On thee, Eliza! and the storm of night.
In yon sequester’d grove, whose sullen shade
Sighs deeply to the blast, dost thou remain,
Still faithful to the spot, where he is laid,
For whom the tears of beauty flow in vain?
Ah, left alone beneath the dreadful gloom,
Companion of the tempest! left alone!
I see thee, sad-reclining o’er the tomb,
A pallid form, and wedded to the stone!
Ah! what avails it, Sorrow’s gentlest child,
To wet the unfruitful urn with many a tear;
To call on Edward’s name, with accents wild,
And bid his phantom from the grave appear?
No gliding spirit skim the dreary ground,
Dress the green turf, or animate the gloom,
No soft aerial music swells around,
Nor voice of sadness murmurs from the tomb.
Cold is the breast that glow’d with love, and pale
The cheek that, like the morning, blush’d before:
Mute are the lips that told the flattering tale,
And rayless is the eye that flattered more.
Deep, deep beneath the dark mysterious grave,
Thy tears he sees not, nor can hear thy sighs:
Deaf is thine Edward, as the Atlantic wave,
Cold as the blast that reads the polar skies.
Oh! turn, and seek some sheltering kind retreat;
Bleak howls the wind, and deadly is the dew:
No pitying star, to guide thy weary feet,
Breaks thro’ the void of darkness on thy view.
Think on the dangers that attend thy way!
The gulf deep-yawning, and the treacherous flood;
The midnight ruffian, prowling for his prey,
Fiend of despair, and darkness, grim with blood!
But oh! if thoughts terrific fail to move,
Let Pity win thee back to thine above;
Melt at a sister’s tears, a mother’s love,
Aw’d by the voice of Reason, and of God!
N. B.