To swell this tear, which sorrow drew,
Do they remain?—alas how few!
Swilcar! from thee a wither’d bough
Will best become my temples now.
And pendent here my shell I leave
Mournfully mute; save when, at eve,
While Silence lists on brooding wings,
Soft airs shall brush the murmuring strings:
So still be fond complaint preferr’d,
Its master’s voice no longer heard!