ELEGY.

Through oak-woods green,

A silver sheen,

Sweet moon, from thee

Afforded me

A tranquil joy,

Me, then, a happy boy.

Still makes thy light

My window bright,

But can no more

Lost peace restore:

My brow is shaded,

My cheek with weeping faded.

Thy beams, O moon,

Will glitter soon,

As softly clear,

Upon my bier:

For soon, earth must

Conceal in youth my dust.

C.H.